


Everyone Except Me

by CurlzForMetal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Ghosts, M/M, Mark of Cain, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 12:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12410160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlzForMetal/pseuds/CurlzForMetal
Summary: Dean doesn't know who he is anymore, even after Castiel removes him from Death's clutches. The world that Dean comes back to isn't the one he wanted to leave behind. Sam is a faint reminder of what he once was, Cas is spiraling towards a Graceless death, and Dean is turning into a monster. Cas’ words begin to ring true, that in the end, only Castiel will remain to witness Dean's descent into madness. As Cas and Sam urge Dean to save himself, and Dean works to save them both, it comes down to who Dean can live without, and what choices he can live with.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. The reason for my radio silence the last six-ish months. The reason I spent most of the summer crying in a garbage can. Here it is...my DCBB fic. This would not exist with out my absolute best friend [ Alex ](grumblingdragon.tumblr.com) who is the only reason I didn't die writing this and drown in my tears. Thank you fren. 
> 
> Secondly, my beta Mack is the absolute best person ever. He went behind me and cleaned up every messy word and was a great - absolutely great - sounding board for plot ideas. I went through like five or six endings before I settled on this one. Thank you so much, Mack, for all your hard work and late nights and streams of emails and questions. Endless thanks. 
> 
> And now, the moment you've all been waiting for - my artist, VaryuPon. She did an amazing job with her [ art ](https://imgur.com/a/XNtVa) and I'm so thankful to work with her. It was an absolute pleasure to work with her and I am so happy with the effort she put into this. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the cumulation of all of our efforts into this project. This is the longest thing I've ever written and the most effort I've put into anything, ever. And now the curtain rises...

 

He’s forgotten his own name. He’s forgotten a lot of things, words and places and events, but the main thing he knows he doesn’t know is his own name. He doesn’t know anyone else’s name either.

He can sometimes catch flashes of them, like small pieces of a puzzle that shouldn’t be broken. He can sometimes know them, the people who occupy his time every day. Mainly, he sees them and knows them from the day before, and the day before that, and the days before that, stretching back to a beginning and a name and a self he doesn’t have. The people he’s surrounded with are pieces painted with the wrong colors and molded in the wrong shapes.

He's weary of not truly comprehending these people who surround him, exhausted by trying to put the pieces together in a way that makes sense. Somewhere, he knows that the reason he can't put them together is because putting them together with cut throats and broken limbs isn't the correct way to do it, but he can't bring himself to care.

It takes far too much energy.

Everyday, he sees the blonde, her features soft, and the gruff older man with the ballcap. There’s a boy verging on man, with huge eyes and a mess of black hair. The shy girl with the awkward smile is also there, her face bright and open. He should know more than their faces, have more than the handful of details that he does, have more than these people cast in a haze from the Red Days.

He doesn’t know them beyond that and their screams, doesn’t know them besides the appearance of their intestines, how their arteries look carefully tied around their still pulsing brain.

Sometimes he feels like he shouldn’t know them like that, should know about these people rather than their vessels, their physical self.

The people are always the same, every day. They are the only constant, the never-changing bodies of his life. He wakes up differently every day, sometimes hot, or cold, sometimes alone or with someone. Some days, it’s warm outside, the sun shines, the grass is green. Others, it’s cold, filled with snow, or hard, neverending sheets of rain. Most of the time, he can’t tell when he woke up, or when the weather changed, or why he’s inside rather than out.

He could scantily recall a time when the change would make him stop, and blink, and try to understand how he hadn’t caught it. He has no use for caring, now, no use for understanding why or how or when or what or where.

That time belongs to a man with a name, and he is not that man.

The days blur together, unwilling to be untangled from the millions before it. The days that stand out the most are the ones with the one person he doesn’t see everyday, the one with the sallow face and long nose, who wears a sharp suit and has his hair slicked back. The man’s visits are also muddled together, shoved in with each other, though they are few and far between. They’ve met in many places, the man always waiting for him, hands on his cane, voice polite and words biting. The man always asks how he’s doing, and the questions dredges from some dark place words about the Red Days, the ones that are painted with blood.

The explanation of his powerlessness against the pain, and how helpless he is against the haze as it settles into his brain like a parasitic fog, feels rehearsed and practiced, like he's given the same story to himself a thousand times.

The Red Days drip with death. By the end of them, he droops with exhaustion -  from what, he can never explain.

Yet, he tries to tell the suited man about them, about how he goes to a dark place where nothing except his rage and his pain matter, how his arm aches on those days, and how he kills everyone. He has strangled them, watched the life fade from their eyes.

He has slowly decapitated them, giving them time to cry out in fear, and in pain, before they choke on their own blood.  He has killed them in so many ways and simply laughed, and when they started breathing again, he killed them some more.

When his arm stops burning and his hands are clean again, he passes by one of the people in the street, and the mouth that had screamed the day before smiles brightly at him.

He's tired of the confusion, the ever-constant itch that something is _off_.

He sometimes tells the man about the one person who he sees everyday, but can never talk to. The man is tall, with broad shoulders and long hair, and even longer legs. He always hugs the edge of his vision, hulking and large and always walking away. He remembers a time when he would chase the man, shouting himself hoarse, screaming and running until he collapsed. He wonders why sometimes, but can never recall.

The man in the suit hasn’t been seen since he appeared during one of the Red Days, and it should bother him, but nothing does anymore.

Today, it’s winter, the world biting and sharp and cold. He’s on an actual street today, buildings stacked on both sides, high and curving in like a threat - or a promise. He walks down the street, feet kicking in the snow, and the blonde girl trips in front of him. He leans down to help her up, a large hand grasping her arm, the sun tangled in her hair, and for a vivid moment, he remembers.

_There’s a diner, a rifle, flipping it, an older woman yelling at him, invisible claws raking her skin._ He can recall the perfect picture her guts made hanging from the ceiling fan and gently spinning. He’s painted masterpieces with her blood, strung out her veins one small line at a time only to tie them together and watch her die from lack of bloodflow.

She smiles at him, shakes his hand, and moves away from him, arm in arm with a redhead, whose hair stands out against the dull backdrop of white. They shove each other and they fall together into a snowbank, laughing.

He huffs a laugh and turns, the snow swirling around his feet, everything still as cold and gray as before. The sky seems to break, and his vision has cracks in it, like he’s standing on the glass window panes of the building, and the snow covered concrete is falling towards him, the sky a leaning tower of solid blue, and the building above him is painted with gray clouds emptying themselves of snow.

Then the world rights itself and he’s standing on snow once more, the sky heavy with clouds again. There’s a distant sound - the steady, single flap of a pair of wings. The sound is distant and echoey, like a broken down microphone shouting into the empty. He finishes his turn, foot sliding through white powder as his next step, eyes roving the street for the next familiar face.

He finds one that isn’t familiar at all, except it is.

A body, one he hasn’t dissected thoroughly, one he hasn’t taken apart atom by atom. The person stands, utterly still, in the center of the road, the tan trenchcoat clashing with the tones of gray and white behind the man.

Even though he’s too far away to see the man’s eyes, even though he doesn’t know the color simply from taking the man’s eyes apart while he can only scream, the exact color comes to mind.

He knows that they’re blue.

Blue.

Blue like the Grace of an angel, like the bottomless depths of a soul, blue like the eyes of Castiel, whose hair is black, like the Impala, with her sleek lines and how many times has Dean put her back together, and himself in the process?

Dean has a name, has a mind that isn’t blank like the snow he’s collapsing in, has a whole person who he _is_ but hasn’t bothered being, and he has a brother.

Sam.

Sam, Sammy, the center of Dean’s whole world, and the end of it and the start of it too, and Dean killed Sam, and _Dean killed Sam._

Dean exhales harshly, a hand flinging out to break his fall, because he’s falling, falling like when Castiel rebelled for him - “I gave everything for you!”- and Dean crashes, crashes like Sam’s head, with his eyes still staring up at Dean, so sure in his faith in his older brother, so sure that Dean knew best, that Dean was right.

Dean is gasping, trying to drag in air that he doesn’t need. What type of monster has he become? Dean is gasping like when there was an angel blade through his chest and he woke up a demon, and isn’t he a demon now? The Red Days, he recognizes now, are when he loses control of the Mark, when it eats him up and isn’t satisfied, and needs to destroy everything else too.

He clenches his eyes shut, trying to erase the blue reminder, the red memories, trying to forget he did those things, or trying to forget there’s a reason why he shouldn’t. The back of his eyelids aren’t kind, and all they give him is black, black like the abyss Death locked him in, black like blood on the walls at night, black like the stain on Dean’s soul, because after all these years of killing and torture, how are his eyes not flicked to black, how is he not a pile of smoke and horns and sharp edges possessing a body?

A hand touches his shoulder, and Dean remembers that hand, how it felt when it was larger, when it had claws and was connected not to a body, but an immense ray of light, like Dean’s own personal sun come to burn away all the sins of Hell, and that handprint was his salvation, but it left, and the only thing now is a different Mark, one that’s Dean’s damnation.

Dean opens his eyes at last and turns his head to gaze at the hand that is a mockery of what truly raised him from Hell, and here Castiel is again to save Dean, to pull him out of his mistakes, but Dean isn’t brave enough to meet Castiel’s eyes.

Dean closes his eyes again, because he knows that the eyes staring down at him are blue, and he doesn’t want to face the judgement there. Words come to mind - _“I’m the one who will have to watch you murder the world.”_ \- and isn’t that the truth? Castiel watched Dean murder his whole world, his Sammy, and Sam is dead. Worse, Sam is _dead because of Dean._

Slowly, Dean swallows the grief welling him, and he opens his eyes to the blank sheet of white his hands are buried in. They should feel cold but they don’t and Dean can’t tell if it’s because the illusion of this world is shattered, or if Dean just can’t feel anything anymore.

Castiel finally speaks, and it's a voice that Dean craves, but also hates, hates because it's a reminder of what he's done, his greatest crime of all.

“Dean, it's time to go.”

Dean breathes before he responds, but what comes out isn't the collected answer he was aiming for. “Where, Cas? Go where?” Castiel's answer is simple.

“Back.”

Dean takes a shuddering breath, and makes an inhuman sound of pain. It's desperate and pleading, begging for an answer to the question that goes unspoken: _Go back to what?_

Castiel doesn't seem to understand. He just grips Dean's shoulder, not reading Dean's mind, and once, Dean would have been happy with having privacy, but now, he doesn't want to voice anything, put sound to any of the thoughts tearing through his mind, because it makes it more real. Makes Sam's blood on the floor, the sound his body made thumping against the floor, it makes his eyes staring vacantly upward all the more real, makes all of it true.

How much Dean wants none of it to be true.

Dean tries to force words out of his mouth, tries to _ask,_ but he can't. Instead, his arms give way, and he falls fully into the snow, Castiel's hand falling from his shoulder.

Dean lies in the snow for a long, long time.


	2. ii

Eventually, Dean gains the presence of mind to stop his tears and sit up, leaning back onto his knees. 

 

Cas is still standing there, hands draped by his sides, eyes on Dean.

 

Dean doesn't want them there, doesn't want Cas to see all the hurt and the shame that he must have written in his red-rimmed eyes and the salty tears that he can taste.

 

Cas is still waiting, quiet in the street, and it strikes Dean that in all the time he's been here, it's never been  _ quiet.  _ Not completely, never the absolute silence that it is now. 

 

Dean lifts his head, and he almost expects how the other people spread out across the street are completely still, how the snow hangs in the air, not falling, not rising, just there. The illusion is broken, and won't move anymore, simply because Dean doesn't believe in it anymore.

 

Dean finally stands, his eyes still avoiding Cas’. He hasn't seen Cas since Sam died -  _ Dean can't possibly comprehend how he killed Sam, why was that ever an idea, why was it ever an option  _ \- and somehow, even though Dean has had forever, it still feels like when Castiel pulled him out of hell, all the guilt that welled up inside of Dean, all the shame for the tortured souls.

 

Except this time, the remorse isn't for any of the blood on Dean's hands except Sam's, because for some reason, Dean feels that only Sam should matter. 

 

It's always just been Sam.

 

Castiel's voice is low, like it always is, when he says, “We must go, Dean.”

 

Dean wants to grab him and shake him, yell at him that there is no going, no moving forward, not without Sam,  _ never without Sam _ .

 

He doesn't. 

 

Instead, Dean swallows his grief and folds it into apathy. Cas looks lost, almost like he can see the way Dean's eyes go dim, how Dean's broken shoulders glue themselves back together to hold the weight of what he's done. 

 

Dean wants to speak, opens his mouth to try, but he knows that the moment a sound passes through his lips, it will become a sob, and soon Dean will be crying again, and he doesn't want to, doesn't deserve to. 

 

Cas seems to understand this, and – his eyes tilted downward – holds out a hand, palm up, fingers painted into delicate arches. 

 

“Death was clever, Dean. He made it impossible for you to escape unless you truly wanted to.”

 

Dean's brows furrowed over dead eyes, his voice lacking inflection, “Of course I want out, are you-”

 

Castiel interrupts him, and maybe it's because he can't stand to hear the listless tone of Dean's voice, or simply just because he needs to say, “After all that you sacrificed to get here, do you truly want to let it go?”

 

Dean can feel the regret climbing up his throat, trying to claw it's way past his forced indifference, but he swallows it down. He nods - a short, jerked movement of his head, trying to show that he  _ can  _ let it go, but the nod turns into a shake, one that reaches his whole body. Dean wants to cry, a sobbing heave that will shake apart his whole body, but he can't, he realizes, because Sam sacrificed himself for Dean to be here. Sam's dead, for Dean, and Dean won't waste it. 

 

“I - I can't leave, Cas. Sam  _ died  _ to get me here. I can't give up on this, on keeping the world safe.”

 

Cas’ face is storming, quietly, in the slightly frowning eyebrows and the tightened corners of his mouth. “And what about you, Dean? Sam died for you, not for everyone else. You are breaking here, Dean - don't think you can hide it from me.” His voice is a rumble, low and urgent. 

 

Dean knows that he's losing himself here. All he has to do is think of the state he was in upon Castiel's arrival. But he can't  _ leave,  _ not after what he had to do to get here. The thought – _ blood spilling across the floor, eyes staring at him, scythe burning in his hands _ – makes him sick with shame and fear. It makes his throat tighten, and his mouth dry and he wants to throw up.

 

Cas seems to see the small shudder of Dean's body, and his face smooths. His voice is softer, pleading. “Dean. You have never left me behind. Not without a fight, and after all of what we've been through, I refuse to leave you.”

 

Dean takes in Castiel, meeting his eyes for the first time, and he notices that they are the most vibrant thing in this world. They hold all the color of the sky, and Cas’ hair seems to hold all the shadows. Dean thinks that it isn't fair that Castiel should be the one to clean up his mess again, to  _ save  _ him again. 

 

“Cas…” Dean trails off before he's even truly started. 

 

Cas is still holding his hand out, begging Dean to come with him, to be saved. It's a gesture that reminds Dean of Sam, tilting his head back, in something like begging for forgiveness. It never should have been Sam asking for it. Dean's the one who messed up and Sam payed the price.

 

“Why would setting me free be better than locking me up?”

 

“Dean, we need to -”

 

“ _ No _ !” Dean explodes, his voice a supernova of sound in the unnatural stillness of this world. “No, Cas, answer the question. How would breaking me out of here save anyone?” 

 

He had started off angry, and demanding, but his voice had quieted and cracked, falling apart. Dean wishes that putting himself together was as easy as clearing his throat.

 

Cas’ eyebrows furrow in sadness. “Dean,” he says, all earnest eyes and tilted head, “you can learn to control it. You can-”

 

Dean throws his hand up in the air and turns around, his voice an accusation. “I could, sure, but according to you, I will turn.” He spins back to face Cas, a finger pointed to lay blame. Dean's voice is quiet, but fierce. “You  _ said I would turn, Cas.  _ You were right, and you don't get to ignore that.”

 

Dean's hand sinks back to his side, and Cas breathes in before speaking again, his body a step closer. “You don't think you deserve to be saved.”

 

Dean feels like the world is cracking again. The words bring back an old barn, and Bobby, lights exploding, his perception of the world changing forever. 

 

Castiel pushes forward, his body coming into arm's reach of Dean, his voice matter of fact. “I said that to you when I raised you from Hell, and I say it to you again, because it's true. You don't think you deserve to be saved, but not because of what you've done to people or what you might do.” Castiel's voice becomes angry. “You think you're undeserving because of what you did to  _ Sam,  _ and only because it was Sam. If it had been any random person,” here, Castiel's voice cracks, “ if it had been _ me,  _ and Sam had come to get you, you would be gone. You would leave here without caring one bit.”

 

Dean's words are bitter and his voice even more so when he says, “What's your point?”

 

“You don't give a damn about the  _ world,  _ Dean. Stop pretending like you care. You only care about Sam!”

 

Anger boils inside of Dean, and for the first time today, the Mark is burning, his arm is shaking. Maybe some small piece of that flashes across his face, because Cas backs away.

 

It's not enough.

 

Dean launches forward, the familiar red haze slowly sinking over his vision. He slams Castiel against the reflective glass of the building, his shouting hoarse with rage.

 

“You think,”  _ slam,  _ “it's just about Sam? If it was about Sam,” another fling into the glass, “I  _ wouldn't have killed him. _ It was about saving the world,”  _ slam  _ “from,”  _ slam  _ “me!” A final shove into the window.

 

Dean would have continued trying to beat his point into Cas - _ bloody face, the smell of gasoline, angel blade cold in his hand _ \- but he catches a reflection of himself behind Castiel's shoulder.

 

His eyes are black.

 

Only for a moment, the small second between blinking and shock, but it was there, and it's enough to make Dean stumble backwards, hands releasing Cas, his face twisting in horror. 

 

Dean turns and sprints, kicking up the snow around his feet. The sky, which had been a flat, pale grey for almost the whole day, is darkening into black. The world had stopped being frozen, time crawling forward again, snow drifting down.

 

Dean runs and runs and runs and runs. His legs tensing, pushing, his chest still. He didn't need to breathe. He could run forever, if he wanted to. 

 

It's the very idea that he could that makes him not.

 

The world is a swirling painting of snow, gray and white, and Dean is lost. He is lost in so many ways, because the only color missing from this picture is black, but the black is there. He can't see it because it's in his eyes, trapped in the gray reflection over the edge of Cas’ shoulder. 

Dean is lost in so many ways because he can't stay here - he knows he can’t. He will shatter and tear himself apart, leaving only a body with the Mark. He can't leave either - he'd be leaving the only thing he has left of Sam. 

 

Emotion chokes him, and the snow is inviting. Dean wants to drown in the cold, pretend the black in his eyes can blind him to the pain, and sleep for the rest of the forever he has. 

  
His knees are the first to sink into the smooth white expanse. His torso follows, and then his face; the cold is good, and the dark is better, and temporary death is best.


	3. iii

Dean wakes up to white. It's only when he breathes in and the cold air pierces his lungs that he remembers why his vision is glistening. 

 

He sits up, snow falling from his back, clinging to his eyelashes, and shaking from his hair to his shoulders. 

 

A flash of color catches his eye, and he turns to notice Cas sitting calmly in the snow, light outlining him, the white snow paling in comparison. 

 

Dean wonders if Castiel is so vivid because he's the only real thing here.

 

Dean's voice is hoarse when he asks, “Why are you here?” 

 

Cas turns to face him, and the light seems to intensify, leaving his face in shadow and giving him a glowing halo of light tangled in his hair. 

 

Cas’ voice is quiet in the cold, but loud in the light when his response comes. “I told you I wouldn't abandon you, Dean.”

 

Dean stares at Cas, how buried he is in snow, where the powder is softly dusted across his shoulders, and he blurts, “Did you sit there all night, man?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

Dean blinks rapidly, adjusting to the idea of Cas, sitting in the dark, the world swirling around him, waiting for Dean. In the cold of snow, and the dark edges that the Mark leaves behind, Dean feels the first green sprouts of something warm and life giving, something achingly  _ human  _ begin bursting inside his chest. 

 

It's a heartbeat, he's startled to realize. It's his heart starting, and how had he never noticed that it had stopped? He swallows again, nervous, and the slow  _ thump-thump  _ inside of and around him is steadily increasing. 

 

The world seems to be moving to it, rattling around in time to the beat his heart is setting. Castiel looks up at the fake sky and smiles slightly before meeting Dean's eyes, the light softer now.

 

“Your heartbeat was something I missed, Dean.” 

 

Dean doesn't really have a response for that besides to look away. He sits up properly in the snow, his eyes cast away. In all the bent light of the fake day, it's hard to remember the black eyes staring at him, hard to remember that they were his own.

 

“I can't leave, Cas.”

 

“The day hasn't changed, Dean.”

 

The subject is so off topic that Dean can only stare at Cas in confusion. Cas takes it as need to restate himself. “The day hasn't changed. You are in the same place you fell asleep, there is still snow, and time has passed normally.”

 

Dean's brow furrows in recognition of the truth of Castiel's statement. “Why?” His question is enough to drag Dean's eyes from the space around Cas to Cas’ eyes. 

 

“The days change because you need them to. You needed the day to stay the same so that I could find you. You  _ want  _ to leave, Dean, no matter how you lie to me or to yourself.”

 

A pause, then, “I can't leave, Cas. I can't just let Sam's -”

 

Cas’ interruption is a growl, “Do you think, if Sam had known you were in for hundreds of years of torture, he would have agreed? That he would've let this happen? He thought you were going to a safe place Dean, not a second Hell.”

 

Dean can only murmur, “No, he - he wouldn’t have.”

 

Castiel sighs, looking up at the sky for guidance. “One thousand nine hundred and sixty seven years, Dean. That's how many years you were here. But out there,” Cas gives an aborted hand twitch,”-out there, it's been maybe a year.” 

 

The snow begins to feel oppressing as Dean mouths, “ _ What?”  _

 

“Death wanted you to break, Dean. He put you between Hell and the Empty, and sped the time up so fast that in one year, you lived nearly two thousand.”

 

Some mournful note in Castiel's voice prompts Dean to ask, “How do you know?”

 

Castiel's eyes are shadows filled with pain when they meets Dean's as Cas’ response echoes in the tight silence between them. “I had to live through them.”

 

Dean looks away, his face asking the question he's too afraid to voice. Cas answers it regardless. “I had to catch up, go through all the days to get to you. It took only a moment, but it was still...” there's a long pause here, a search for the right word, “ _ painful _ .”

 

Dean has to remember that Castiel is angel; all that Dean's ever done, or ever will do, can be processed nearly instantaneously for Cas. Dean's whole life, beginning to end, in the time it takes for him to blink.

 

Nearly two thousand years for Dean and 'only but a moment’ for Cas.

 

Dean still looks away, away from Cas’ pain, away from his own shame as he remembers all the horrible things he’s done -  _ blood on his hands, grinning down into screams, kissing his victim as if he could swallow the taste  _ \- and he thinks of how Cas had to witness his sins, had to live through them. He feels sick, and dry heaves into the snow, his body convulsing. 

 

_ His eyes were black.  _

 

When Dean comes back to himself, Cas is still waiting, still staring at him, and Dean is swaying. He speaks before he can stop himself, words coming out in a stumbling tangle of vowels that rings with his own self-disgust. “How can you stand to be here, with me?”

 

Cas tilts his head, eyes squinting slightly, both of them questions on their own. Dean swallows and feels like he’s gonna be sick again. He slumps and holds up his hands as proof. “How can you sit to be here, after witnessing what I’ve done? You were created to kill monsters, Cas, to kill things like me.” Dean gives a bitter look to himself. 

 

“After everything you’ve done for the world, Dean-”

 

“You mean the amount of times I’ve screwed up and cleaned up my mess?”

 

“You stopped the Apocalypse, Dean! You sealed away the most horrible beasts this world has ever seen, you bear the first dark omen, you are not a monster!”

 

“I’ve been one, Cas, and if I’m not now, then I’m sure as hell becoming one again!”

 

“Dean-”

 

“No! All those things you say I did? All of them were me cleaning up my own goddamn messes! The Apocalypse was my fault. I broke, I tortured, I  _ became everything I’ve ever hunted.  _ Everything else, every  _ single thing _ , was cleaning up that mess, just because I couldn’t handle a little pain. I’m not going to do that again, fight  _ again _ , because all it’s ever done is created another mess! I won’t inflict myself on the world, on you! I can’t do that, Cas!”

 

“We were written in rebellion, Dean! Everything we’ve done has been because we’re fighting against the odds, against fate crushing us! We, both of us, were born fighting, and I won’t let you leave this world any other way!”

 

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? Tried to leave this world fighting?  _ I keep coming back.  _ I have fought so hard, Cas, so hard to stop poisoning everything, but I can’t leave!” Dean’s voice is breaking, like how Dean himself is broken, and there’s nothing he can do, not about being shattered, not about the tears running down his face, dripping into the snow. 

 

Cas looks away. There’s nothing left to say, except when there is, because Castiel turns back to Dean, fire in his eyes, and at first, Dean is convinced that Cas is going to smite him  _ \- and he’s willing to let him -  _ but Cas’ voice is angry, full of the righteous anger that Dean misses in himself. 

 

“You were never a burden, Dean, never a monster or an abomination! Not when I fell for you, not when I remembered you, not all those times I died.  _ You were never a burden. _ ” 

 

“But I was always a problem.”

 

“All of us were problems, Dean! The Leviathan wouldn’t have gotten loose if I hadn’t been power hungry, you wouldn’t have ended up with the Mark if you’d had someone! Sam killed Lilith, starting the Apocalypse! We were all problems Dean, but we were solutions  _ together _ .”

 

After that, Dean doesn't really have much to say. He just takes Cas in, this new Cas who seems much wiser, stronger than the Castiel that Dean left behind. 

 

Dean wants to leave, wants to breathe real breaths. The evidence of his want is in the steady thump of heart around them, the fake world trembling with each beat. It's only after several beats that Dean speaks. 

 

“If I leave, and I hurt someone, what are you going to do?”

 

Cas’ head tilts, and he studies Dean before responding. “Not blame you or beat you. It's not your fault.”

 

_ You will never hear me say that you, the  _ real _ you, is anything but good. _

 

Dean swallows the tears that fight to spill out, tight against his skin, and he shoves the memory -  _ Sam kneeling, tears tracing shapes like lighting, so many colors covered by tears -  _ down, down, down where it won't threaten to choke him again.

 

A shuddering breath, a stilted beat and then Cas is asking, “Dean, are you alright?”

 

Dean’s not alright, and the tight feeling brings back so many memories of Sam and Dean fighting -  _ hands on his chest, eyes glaring up at him in something like desperation, so much anger burning itself out between them -  _ and Dean just misses Sam. He misses his hair and his laugh and even his tears, because if Sam was crying at least he’d be alive and Dean can feel the sick building again, the words running around inside of him. 

 

_ You killed him.  _

 

Dean swallows and drags his eyes back to Cas’, not sure when they'd left them. He grits out, past the vomit flavor building behind his teeth, past the grief pushing it out and the horror caught in his throat, “You need to lock me up again.”

 

“Dean-” 

 

“No, Cas. If I hurt someone, anyone, you lock me up by whatever means necessary.” Dean closes his eye against the pity that’s sure to be there in Castiel’s eyes. Cas might feel this an unnecessary precaution, but Dean thinks about that kid, young and begging Dean, telling Dean that he wasn’t like his family.

 

Dean still shot him. 

 

Dean is without a doubt a monster who needs to be locked away, who needs to stay here, in this fake world where he can’t kill the people he’s died to protect. He needs to tell Cas to go, to leave Dean here with the Red Days and a broken memory, but Dean is selfish. He wants out, wants to see real people again, even with the Mark purring out all the things he could do to real people. 

 

If Dean is selfish enough to want out, he’s also selfless enough to know that eventually he’ll need to be kept in. Dean needs Cas to promise that he won’t let Dean hurt anymore innocent people. 

 

Cas’ hand on Dean's shoulder is steadying and firm, and his voice grounding, hiding Dean from the onrushing tide of self-loathing. “Dean.”

 

When Dean finally pries his eyes open, Cas’ hand is still on his shoulder and his eyes still on Dean's face. Dean can barely find the urge to respond within himself. “What?”

 

“The choice is yours, whether to come back or stay here to become insane. I would like you to know that the world misses you, Dean. It needs you.” Cas looks down, and it almost looks like he's blushing, and he whispers softly, “I need you.”

 

Dean remembers kneeling, unforgiving stone beneath his knees, blood drying and pulsing on and under his cheek, Castiel above him, angel blade poised to deliver death. Dean can almost feel the echo of his own, 'I need you.’

 

Dean meets Castiel's eyes. The world trembles with every beat of the heart Dean had thought he'd lost. 

 

Dean sees the blue, and wonders if his are black. 

 

He swallows tightly, Cas still staring at him. Dean opens his mouth once more, about to give a last, pathetic argument to  _ stay _ – though they both know he's leaving this place – and he runs out of excuses. 

 

He's afraid. 

 

Of what, it's hard to say. Giving up Sam maybe, or leaving here, or going there. He's scared of the blood red Mark on his arm that burns for violence, and he's also afraid of himself. Dean is so desperately afraid of himself. 

 

Cas’ hand gives a final squeeze from it's place on Dean's shoulder before falling to his side. Castiel holds out his other hand, eyes tilted sadly. “Dean. We must go.”

 

Dean shouldn't. He prays for someone to stop him, to pin his hands to his sides. He wishes for anything to stop him, because he's far too weak to stop himself.

 

No one comes to stop him, and Dean softly grabs Cas’ hand. 

 

Before the world explodes into a shower of blue grace, and the angry red of the Mark, Dean swears he saw Cas smiling. 

  
It takes Dean only a moment to realize why, as the angel Castiel tightens his hold and raises Dean Winchester from perdition. 


	4. iv

__

The world is dark. No color, no light, and all senses gone. Dean is alone, lost awash a sea of uncertainty. 

Alone. Dark. The darkness is colored now, flickering and red. Something else red is pulsing, aching, and Dean thinks it's his heart until the pulse has teeth made of demon smoke, and it sinks into him, burning and branding, and  _ biting _ . 

He screams, and chokes on teeth coated in ash and charcoal. He can feel the black smoke pressing against his eyelids, pressing against his  _ soul,  _ drowning him, he can't breathe, it's in his throat and lungs, and  _ he can't breathe-  _

“Dean?”

A sound, besides the crackle-pop of his bones gaining the weight of life, rings through the clashing angry-red beating drum of the Mark. 

“Dean.”

It's calling for him, Dean knows, because that sound belongs to him. It's calling through the dark, dragging him up, out of the smoke that slithers out of his lungs and pours from his eyes until- 

He sits up, coughing and gasping, choking on air. With his arm propping himself up, Dean stills his body a moment, panting. 

Cas’ hand is warm on his back, rubbing it softly, and he's whispering soothing words. 

Dean's chest heaves with air, real air, and he feels cool cement beneath his palm, Cas’ hand solid and steadying against him. 

The ground is hard, and Dean realizes he missed it. Missed how real everything was, from the air in his lungs to the sunlight shining through a window onto his face.

Dean breathes for a few moments, gains control of himself, blinks. He turns to looks at Cas and loses his breath again. 

If Cas stood out inside of that state of delusion, he was the only thing worth looking at in the real world. He was vivid, and close, lines soft against the darkness behind him. 

Dean manages to croak, “Where are we?” 

Cas’ mouth twitches before he responds. “Warehouse in Pontiac, Illinois.” Dean stares in disbelief. “I brought you back to life once here. I thought that residual luck might be left behind.”

Dean snorts and closes his eyes, tilting his head back. The warehouse is dark, except for the single beam of sun, shining right onto them. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say Cas put them there on purpose. 

After an adjustment period, breathing in dust and sun, Dean sighs. “What day is it?”

“January 1st, 2017,” Cas is gravely serious, blue eyes tracing Dean's face. 

“Meant the day of the week, Cas.” 

“Oh. It's Sunday.”

Dean rolls his shoulders and stand up, brushing off Cas’ offer of help. “We'll make it back to the bunker probably around Wednesday.”

“It's not that far of a drive, Dean, unless you plan to make stops.”

Dean grins, false bravado easily sliding into place. “Of course I plan to make stops. I'm alive again, Cas,” Dean spreads his arms wide, displaying his aliveness to him. “Gotta make all the stops.” 

__  
  


So it goes that Dean stumbles into the bunker, hanging off of Castiel in the late hours of Wednesday evening, pie dangling from an arm, and breath smelling like beer. 

Neither Cas nor Dean have mentioned that Dean has been downing coffee to keep awake, energy drinks when coffee failed, and how Dean hasn't slept since coming back to life.

Dean doesn't tell Cas about how the Mark is burning, won't stop burning, about how it's whispering to him all the things he could do. 

Cas helps Dean down the hall to a bed that hasn't been used since a year ago, and Dean crashes onto it gratefully. 

Dean is asleep before Cas can even remove the squashed pie from beneath him.

__  
  


At first it's dark. Dim, lights flickering, the taste of salt on his tongue, a gun in hand, his back to the wall. Slowly lights come on, one flick after another, red and flashing, and it's the bar, and there's a chalk pattern on the floor, like it's waiting for a body to fill it up. 

Sam's crying, tears tracing out a pattern like lightning and  _ Sammy, close your eyes _ , and the world hurts, cuts Dean wide open with his last true act of violence. It cuts him like he cut Sam, the tear of skin, the pulse of blood, and the Mark comes pouring in with all its possessive teeth made of black smoke, tries to tell Dean it's fixing him.

Dean can feel it under his skin like shattered glass, he can taste the smoke, feel it pressing itself into every crack he has. Dean knows if he was bleeding, it would be black, and he chokes on sulfur. 

_ Sammy, close your eyes.  _

Dean wakes up with his breathing strangled and he's so sure that it's going to be Sam. Sam choking him, removing him from the world because he deserves it, deserves to be forgotten and left. Instead, his vision clears and he can breathe, but he's still so cold, and the tears sliding down his nose are colder, and Dean shakes and shakes. 

It's his first nightmare since returning to life. It's certainly not his last. 

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, sobbing, muffling it into disjointed gasps, shaking into the coldness of his bed. Dean can feel black pressing around him in the dark room. He can almost feel the razor sharp teeth of acid smoke, watching him. 

The light flicks on. 

Dean flinches back, but there's footsteps and then a hand – _ gentle, soft, should grab and flip and  _ **_tear_ ** – on his back, turning him over. It's Cas, looking down with sad eyes as he sits on Dean's bed. 

“Is this why you haven't been sleeping?” 

Dean nods silently. Cas tilts a head at him. “I believe this is what you humans call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” 

Dean gives a weary sigh of amusement, his voice watery when he answers, “All hunters have it, Cas. We're always at war.”

Cas flits an empty glance at him, something old and tired in his eyes. “You, especially, Dean.” 

He doesn't want to hear it, the warm acknowledgement of all that Dean has saved. Dean hasn't saved enough. 

They sit together, Dean pressing his face into the pillow, Cas’ quiet breathing filling the room. The light hums above them, keeping the darkness at bay. 

Eventually, Dean slowly drops back into sleep, Castiel still a warm presence at his side. Dean's dreams are restless, full of hulking shapes and the glint of teeth, but there is no sight of Sam. 

Dean isn't sure how to feel about it. 

When he wakes, it's to the cold ceiling of the bunker, solid and unmoving above him. Even when Dean's world has broken right down the center, the bunker has stayed the same. 

But Dean can feel it, the emptiness that clings to the cement walls like an invading mist. Castiel is not enough to fill up the space left behind by Sam; nothing is. 

Dean sits up, kicking the blankets down the bed, feet landing on the rug beside his bed, and he wants to lay there. But he knows that Cas didn't save him just for Dean to mope. 

It takes a while, but Dean can eventually get to his feet, shuffle over to his unused dresser and pull on some clothes. He doesn't really care what he grabs, and it's only when he's walking down the halls of the bunker that he thinks,  _ The last time I wore this, Sam was alive.  _

It's that thought that leaves Dean crippled and alone, grieving against the ever unfeeling cement walls. He feels like he can't breathe, like the world is collapsing in over him - 

_ “Dean. _ ” 

He stares with glassy eyes at the blurry figure that crowds his vision, and it takes a moment to recognize Cas, and another moment to force back the tears and blink him into focus. 

Cas’ face is pity, but not blatant to anyone besides Dean. It's in the tilt of his eyes, the slant of his brow. Cas is learning how to inhabit his vessel, to have a body. Dean knows that it comforts him, somehow. The more Dean becomes a monster, the less of one that Castiel is. 

If he ever was. 

His voice is soft, his hands that cup Dean's face and examine him. Every movement is soft and careful, as if Cas was dealing with a wild animal. “Are you alright?” 

Dean wants to nod, brush it off and tell Cas he's fine, but he's  _ not.  _ Dean isn't okay. Slowly his nod turns into a shake that spreads throughout his whole body. Cas holds him, a hand sliding to cup his neck and pull him close. He grits his teeth and buries his tears, shoves his anger and his sadness down where he pushes the Mark.

Dean's muffled and hitched breathing bounces off the walls and into his own ears, and the Mark stirs at the sounds of grieving. 

_ Pathetic.  _

Dean tries to ignore it, tries to shove it down, but the Mark – it's awake now. It's hungry. 

_ Monsters don't feel guilty.  _

Cas shifts around him and Dean finally controls it, shoves it down, swallows his grief and chokes his guilt. The Mark purrs, settling back into the place Dean drove it out of. 

“Dean?” 

He meets Cas’ eyes, and Castiel is still concerned; hands still pressed to Dean, eyes still heavy with sadness. 

“I'm fine.” Dean sits back, pulling himself from Cas’ grip. “I'm fine.”

Cas and him both know it's a lie, but the if the Winchesters have taught Castiel anything, it's that you ignore emotions and push on, ignoring it all. 

You don't ever talk about it. 

Dean stands, steeling his spine and steeling his eyes, straightening his bearing and he repeats, trying to  _ mean  _ it, “I’m fine.”

Cas looks like he wants to argue, but doesn't, mouth pressed into a thin line of concern and anger. Dean wonders when he got so good at reading this stone faced angel, or if Castiel is just more human now. 

_  
_ Dean shoves past Cas down the hall, headed for the library. He swears he can feel Cas’ eyes watching him go, all the way down and around the turn, and even then the feeling doesn't cease. 


	5. v

Dean rubs at his eyes and tosses the book onto the table with a thump and a poof of dust. It’s late, he can tell that much from how his eyelids are trying to seal together. He sighs and reaches for the warm beer on the table, condensation long since dripped onto the table. 

 

He polishes it off and sets it to the side, reaching for the book and staring blankly at the pages, not registering a single word. Dean tries to read for another five minutes, eyes unfocused and dazed looking before he swears and throws the book across the room. It slams into the wall and drops to the floor, looking sad. 

 

Dean scoffs and gets to his feet, slamming a hand down on the light switch on his way down the hall. The light in the library flicks off, and even though Dean knew that continuing tonight is useless, he still feels like it’s giving up somehow. 

 

_ Giving up on Sam. _

 

He shoves the thought aside, stomping down the hall to his room, passing Sam’s in the process. The door stands closed, cold and unmoving. Dean wants to convince himself that he can open it and just find Sam on the other side, wondering what the fuck Dean’s doing barging into his room at this ungodly hour. 

 

Dean knows, however, that no amount of booze and heartache is going to put Sam back behind that door. Wanting something never got Dean anywhere. 

 

_ Maybe he’s there. Maybe this time – _

 

Dean huffs, the sound almost a snarl as he stomps over to the door, throwing it open. “There’s nothing here. There’s fucking  _ nothing here _ !” Dean yells. “No Sam, not a dead Sam, not a live Sam. Absolutely fucking nothing!” Dean throws a punch into the doorjamb, and even though it should hurt, it doesn’t. 

 

Dean doesn’t really feel much, these days. Nothing but an aching hole in the chest that he pretends isn’t there. 

 

Three days since Castiel brought Dean back from wherever Death had put him. Three days of searching through every book he could find, searching for some way to bring Sam back. 

 

All of them agree on one thing: you need a body. The one thing Dean doesn't have. 

 

Dean creeps into the room, flicking the light switch. The walls are bare, empty of anything that really marks this room as his brother’s. There's a stack of books in the corner, a shirt tossed across a chair, but it's neat. Tidy. 

 

It's stale and depressing and Dean fucking hates this room. 

 

Dean walks farther into it, breathing in dust and year old Sam. It's dead silent in the bunker, too quiet in Dean's head. 

 

He tightens his jaw and bites back his discomfort, the Mark pulsing on his arm. He strides over to the dresser, starting to rip open drawers and rifle through everything that Sam was. He has no idea what he's even looking for – or why – but still he shoves piles of flannels and baggy jeans aside, looking for something. Anything. 

 

Something that made this room belong to Sam, and not just anybody. Dean starts to just throw clothes around, tossing them over his shoulder, or dropping them on the floor. 

 

Dean picks up a pair of socks and drops them, but they make a sharp  _ clink _ when they land. He furrows his brow and bends down to scoop them from the floor. There's something hard and heavy tucked away in them. Dean carefully unfolds them, pulling the socks apart to reveal a small bronze face glinting up at him. 

 

The amulet sits cupped in Dean's palm between a pair of Sam's socks. Dean can only stare, eyes tracing where the bronze has rubbed away from how his fingers used to worry at it. 

 

Sam had kept it. 

 

All these years, since Dean had dropped it in that trash can, and  _ Sam had kept it.  _

 

Dean remembers that he had wanted to turn around and drive back the next day. He was prepared to dig through tons of trash to find it, but he couldn't work up the courage to tell Sam he was sorry. 

 

Because that's what it would have meant, going back for it. Yet, Dean wouldn't have found it anyways, apparently, because Sam had it tucked away, safe and sound. 

 

Dean hooks a finger under the string, lifting it up to dangle from his hand. The socks fall to the floor as he stares, face to little bronze face. 

 

Almost reverently, Dean pulls it up over his head, letting it fall right into the place it always does. Dean swallows tightly, choking back whatever feelings are crawling up his throat. 

 

He continues to go through Sam's drawers, but he's more careful, hands soft on Sam's things. Once he gets through the rest of the dresser, Dean has a small collection of things. A photograph or three, a pocketknife that's old and rusted and doesn't even unfold anymore, and a list. Dean doesn't know what the list is of, what the names on it are, but he thinks it might be books. 

 

He sighs, staring down at the pile. He doesn't want to call it pitiful, but it is. It's small and sad and one of the only things Dean has left of his brother. 

 

It aches inside him. This loss, this gaping hole in the world. It  _ hurts. _ The Mark snarls. It whispers. The Mark leers at Dean, _ Weak.  _

 

Dean turns on a heel, hands trembling. Without glancing back, without stopping to look side to side, Dean strides to the door. He flips the light and slams the door shut behind him, leaning  heavily back against it. The ring on his finger clatters against the doorknob as Dean's hands tremble. 

 

After a moment, he curls his hand around the knob tightly. His knuckles go white with the pressure, but his hands do not shake, he is not weak and that is all that matters. 

 

Hours later finds Dean in the library once more, after the bed wasn't soft enough to soak up his thoughts. 

 

Dean doesn't think he can handle dreaming about Sam again. He knows he will, knows the dreams will come for him as surely as the Mark will. Dean knows he can't handle either possibility. 

 

His fingers absentmindedly stroke the page of the book, a ritual laid out to bring the dead back. The notes reveal that it's useless for what Dean wants, what Dean  _ needs.  _ The body might walk and talk, but there's no soul. 

 

The last thing this world needs is another soulless Sam running amok - this time, with a partner. 

 

With  _ Dean.  _

 

The more Dean thinks about it, the more right he knows he is. Even if it wasn't really Sam, Dean is very good at pretending, very good at denying. Dean would follow him, do whatever he said, just so long as Sammy stayed close. 

 

Dean sighs and lets his eyes close, hands pushing the cover closed as well. He stands, moving to put the book back into its place but he notices it. The book that he threw earlier is gone, and with a glance, Dean knows it's back on the shelf. 

 

Dean didn't put it back, which means someone must have. The only other person in the bunker is Cas. 

 

Guilt washes over him. Dean's been so caught up in finding a way to bring Sam back that he's almost forgotten about the angel hiding away with him. 

 

Dean's footsteps are soft as he makes his way to the room Castiel claimed as his own. Gently, he turns the knob and pushes open the door, letting a single ray of light slant across Cas’ face. 

 

It's strange, to see him like this. Exposed and open and  _ vulnerable.  _ His face is lax in sleep, not peaceful, but his brow isn't curved in stress. The light catches on his hair, giving him a small halo to replace the one that's been broken so many times. 

 

Dean hides his own tightened mouth and slanted brow by shutting the door. He stares for a moment at the grains of wood, eyes tracing the natural patterns. Sighing, he turns away and shuffles back down the hall to his room. He goes in to lay on the bed and stare vacantly up at the ceiling. He can only think,  _ What now?  _

 

The ceiling gives Dean no answers. Light from the hallway bleeds across him, turning red, outlining everything with blood. It drips from the walls, pooling on the floor, slowly rising. 

 

Dean simply lays there, yelling in his head at the ceiling, begging for answers it will not give. 

 

The blood reaches the bed, spilling up across Dean's hand. He floats on it up, up, up, a hand reaching out, then his face, pressing up against the ceiling, struggling for one last breath of air - 

 

He sits up, skin sticky with sweat. His breathing is raspy with panic, eyes wide and crazed. He moves his hand to rub his face and can see the smears of blood under his nails. 

 

Glancing down, Dean can see the little crescent shaped scratches in his arm, bleeding slowly. He swallows and covers the Mark, smearing blood across his palm. 

 

_ Aren't you hungry?  _ The Mark murmurs through his palm, through his blood.  _ I am.  _

 

Dean clenches his teeth, more sweat beading on his brow. He grits out, “I don't care what you want.” 

 

The Mark is silent on his arm and Dean sighs, kicking out of the bed angrily. He hisses when his bare feet touch cement, freezing him right to his bones. 

 

Dean shuffles over to the sink to wash his face, cupping water and drinking it before splashing the rest onto himself. He looks up, waiting for that moment where his eyes will turn black, but they don't. They're just his own reflected eyes. 

 

He studies himself, what little he can see with those eyes. The more he sees, the worse he feels. His face is pale, clammy. Dead looking. 

 

Dean feels dead enough, on the inside, at least. He grips the edges of the sink tightly. He doesn't want to look anymore, doesn't want to  _ see  _ anymore. But look he does. 

 

Bronze hair swept sideways -  _ looks better with blood in it _ , the Mark grins from the back of Dean's mind, grating - eyes that are green in the sun, blue when he cries -  _ black when you die and kill and rip and tear -  _ lips that are pink, tightened in anger and -  _ look so much better drinking blood _ , the Mark sighs into his bones  Dean's fist comes up to connect with the mirror, the glass cracking and then shattering, tilting forward into the sink. 

 

Dean can feel blood dripping down his fingers and it disgusts him how familiar it feels, how at home the Mark is with it. How at home  _ he _ is with it. Dean can feel the revulsion in his throat, climbing up and out of his mouth. He dry heaves into the sink, pouring it out over blood and glass.

 

In what little remains of the mirror, Dean can see how sick looking he is, how broken.

 

The Mark bites with demon smoke teeth from its place on Dean's arm, the curve of its jaw leering at him from his own fucking skin. Dean hates it, wants to cut it, burn it,  _ get it off _ . 

 

Dean hits the mirror again, and this time he feel the glass slice his skin open. He welcomes the pain, deserves it, and so he hits the mirror again and again until all the glass has fallen out of its frame because it's in the sink or stuck inside of Dean’s skin. He can almost swear it's moving, choking him like the red of the Mark, drowning him in blood. Dean wants to scream.

 

He's already panicked, shaking. Dean feels so pathetic, bashing at his own reflection. He's fighting shadows, because how can he fight the real thing? How can he stand against himself? 

 

“Dean?” He turns, and of course, there's Cas standing there, eyebrows tilted mournfully. Cas sighs at Dean, steps forward to gently touch his shoulder. Dean jerks his shoulder away, in fear of - in fear of something. 

 

“Cas,” Dean acknowledges. He knows he doesn't look his best, knows that Castiel has a valid reason to be concerned, but Dean doesn't want his concern or his pity. 

 

Castiel's hand moves to Dean's arm to cup his blood-covered hand, his other hand traveling to the Mark, covering the angry beat of it with a large palm. They just sit there a moment, holding hands, before Cas drops them and Dean thinks  _ this is it, I'm alone, he's leaving,  _ before Cas hugs him. 

 

Dean blinks from his place in Castiel's arms, stiff. It...feels nice, to be comforted, but Dean can't take this. He can't let Cas do this when Dean has already taken so much from him. 

 

Dean gently grasps Cas’ shoulders and pulls him away, wanting it back the second Cas’ warmth leaves him.

 

Cas seems to understand, and he clears his throat, shifts his weight - an oddly human gesture. Gently, he examines Dean's hands, stroking soft fingers across Dean's palm. His voice is low, rough with sleep or emotion, Dean can't tell. “This will need bandages.” 

 

“Can't you just heal it?” Dean knows it's entitled and rude sounding, but after the life he's had, Dean thinks it's okay to be rude once in a while. 

 

Cas curls into himself, shoulders hunching. “I am tired,” is the only explanation he offers. Castiel drops Dean's hand and ruffles through his things while Dean stands there, dripping blood on to the floor. Cas pulls out the first aid kit and sets it on the bed, gesturing for Dean to sit. 

 

Dean does, but gingerly, sweat cooling in the hollow of his back.  Cas pulls out the disinfectants and healing ointments and starts to treat the small gashes on Dean's knuckles. As he starts to bandage them, Cas’ hands catch on the soft cotton, calluses hooking into it. Dean wonder absentmindedly whose calluses they are - Jimmy's or Castiel's. 

 

When he's done with Dean's knuckles, he moves to the nail scratches by the Mark, cleaning and bandaging them as well. 

 

Both of them are quiet the entire time, Dean ignoring how his hand trembles finely in Cas’ grasp. Castiel does not ask how or what or why, just quietly works over Dean's wounds. 

 

It takes a few minutes for Dean to realize Cas is done, his hands resting on top of Castiel's. Cas is staring at Dean, face blank. 

Dean swallows with a tight throat and mumbles, “Thank you.” 

 

Cas gives him a nod. “Will you be alright?” 

 

“I'll be fine,” Dean lies. “Go get some rest.”

 

Cas hesitates, but Dean knows he's tired, and after a moment, Cas shuffles out. The Mark comes crashing into Dean's head, furious at being ignored. Dean wonders what distracted him enough to make him forget about it. 

 

Dean looks at his sheets, the smears and dribbles of blood there and he doesn't even have the energy to sigh. He just crawls in, tucking himself away between blood and cotton and whatever else blankets are made of. 

 

Dean closes his eyes and dreams of red that turns to blue and then bright, blinding white and the stench of hellfire. 

  
He almost misses Hell right about now. 


	6. vi

Dean finds a hunt. It's two states over - three people dead in as many days, in seemingly impossible ways. 

 

It was a habit, just opening the computer and staring blankly at it, eyes glazed until there was a beep, and the small number of three hundred and twenty turned into three hundred and twenty one. 

 

The case checks out, from afar. The Mark shivers happily, snapping something in Dean with eagerness. Dean can already taste it, the rush, the blood, feel the knife in his hand, helping him, leading him to  _ art _ \- 

 

He scrunches his eyes closed and drags a hand down his face before pushing the chair back with a screech. He heads down to Cas’ room and knocks faintly on the door. 

A moment later, Cas opens the door, hair ruffled, dressed in a loose dress shirt and slacks. Dean blinks and before he can think to stop it - “Don't you have anything else to wear?” 

 

Cas looks down at himself, surprised. “Not really.” 

 

Dean just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I'm going on a hunt. Should be back in a couple days.” 

 

“I'll go with.” 

 

Dean pauses in the middle of turning away. He hadn't even considered the possibility of Cas' coming with. 

 

He almost says no, almost tells Cas that it's a milk run; Dean can do it just fine. The Mark slithers under his skin, eager for blood, and suddenly Dean knows that alone is not the way to do anything, not anymore. Someone's gotta keep an eye on him, and Cas happens to be the only one around. 

 

At least that's what he tells himself. 

 

“Yeah man, alright. You can tag along.” 

 

Cas nods. “When are we leaving?” 

 

“When you get dressed, Cas,” Dean gives him a once over, eyes dragging on his bare toes and exposed neck. 

 

Cas shuts the door, leaving Dean to wander and go get his shit together. Dean makes it to the garage, bag slung over his shoulder, before Cas catches up to him. Dean glances at him, catching his eye before pushing into the garage. Baby sits pretty and waiting, and something in Dean loosens at the sight of her. 

 

He walks over, dragging his hand over the hood before popping the door open and sliding in. Her seats are cold, but familiar, like the smell. It's calming, soothing. 

 

Cas sits beside him, hands folded into his lap, silent. That feels weird, Cas being there. 

 

_ It should be Sam.  _

 

Dean starts the car, letting the sound push away the thought. The rumbling carries them out of the garage and onto the road, and Dean still can't face the fact. Can't look at that passenger seat and not see his brother. 

 

The whole ride there, Dean stares straight out at the road. Empty and black and stretching into forever. Dean wishes it could swallow him and the Mark and all his yawning grief down to where he couldn't feel it anymore. Where he couldn't feel anything, anymore. 

 

Dean drives and drives and drives and wishes that Sam was beside him instead of Castiel. He sighs, pulling into the motel, the sun having set hours ago. Cas is, surprisingly, conked out in the passenger seat, drooling against the window. 

 

He gets them a room, down at the end, and when he comes back out, Cas is still sleeping. Dean opens the door and smacks him on the shoulder and Cas just rolls to the side, making small snoring sounds now. 

 

Dean sighs and smacks him again. Cas doesn't even move this time, so Dean huffs and just picks him up. He remains a zombie in Dean's hold, and Dean remembers many nights spent hauling Sam's drunken ass into a motel room. 

 

Cas weighs less, smells less like beer, more like sweat. He's warm against Dean as he stumbles into the room, tripping over the door. Cas remains asleep through it, oblivious as Dean dumps him on the bed and tugs off his shoes. Dean only sighs and foregoes getting the rest of the shit out the Impala. 

 

Instead he crawls into the other bed and dreams that it was Sam he dragged into this small ass room. 

 

When he wakes up, Cas is sitting at the table in the corner, McGriddle in hand as he looks over the internet. Dean huffs into the pillow before sitting up. 

 

“Since when do you eat? Or sleep for that matter?” 

 

Castiel doesn't even glance at him when he replies. “Since it uses less Grace not to.” 

 

Dean feels like there should be something off about that statement, but he can't figure out what. He shrugs to himself and reaches for his bag, digging through for the whiskey. He takes a swig before putting it back and getting to his feet, moving over to plop into the chair across from Cas. 

 

Cas pushes the McDonald's bag over and Dean looks inside before pulling out the food that must be his. As he digs in, Cas gives him the rundown. 

 

“Three dead. One died of heat stroke during a snowball fight, one drowned in the middle of a highway, and one died of blood loss without any bleeding.” 

 

“Any of this sound witchy to you?” 

 

“It does indeed 'sound witchy’ to me.”

 

Dean nods and polishes off his food, runs a hand through his hair and stands. “When do we head out?” 

 

Cas looks up at him, finally. “Anytime would be good.” 

 

“Good. Clean yourself up and we'll get going.” Dean snags his suit out of his bag and starts getting dressed. 

 

Ten minutes later, he and Cas are cruising down the highway, decked out in monkey suits and prepared to play FBI. Dean refuses to look at Cas, look at this Sam replacement. 

 

The engine clicks as it cools when Dean pulls into house number one. He sighs into the steering wheel as he looks out at the small house. 

 

Cas pushes open the door and heads up the small path, forcing Dean to follow. It's Dean who knocks and does the talking, flashing the badge and learning nothing useful from the small mousy man. 

 

Dean looks to Cas a few times with a look he usually gives Sam. Cas only looks back with no response. Dean can only keep his agitation to himself - he is upset that Cas won't understand signals that were set into stone long before he entered Dean's life. 

 

House number two offers no more information that house number one. All it does is give Dean another awkward car ride with Cas. 

 

All it does is give Dean more mistakes, more habits he tries to project on Cas. He forgets, constantly, that Castiel will not reciprocate them. He will not give Dean an answer in a look. 

 

House number three turns out to be an apartment, one at the top floor up a rickety staircase. The girl who answers is sharp looking, with a severe face and hair pulled into a bun. Her voice is fairly soft and quiet. 

 

“Can I help you?” 

 

“Yes. My name is Agent Zepp and this is my partner, Agent Mercury.” He and Cas flash their badges accordingly. “We have a few questions about the death of your girlfriend, Sarah Brooke.” 

 

“I already told the police everything I know.” 

 

Dean turns up the charm with a smile. “Now, I know that can't be true. Their report was seriously lacking.” He pauses for effect. “Now, either you didn't tell them hardly anything, or they weren't listening after you said Sarah was your girlfriend.” 

 

She softens against the door, sighing. “Yeah, they seemed pretty distant after I mentioned that.” 

 

“Small town police, am I right?” 

 

She smiles at him. “Yeah, it's been hard living here and dating girls.” 

 

“I bet. You think that it might have some connection to Sarah's death?” 

 

“I – yeah, maybe. Do you guys wanna come in?” 

 

“That would be nice, yes.” It's Cas who speaks this time, voice low. 

 

They follow her into the cramped living room of the tiny apartment. She sits on the worn couch, looking down at her hands while fiddling with a ring. 

 

“Sarah was a really nice person. Sweet to everyone, always helpful. There were a couple of guys who tried hitting on her and when they got turned down, they started stalking us. Leaving threatening notes, following her to work and then school and even to the store.” 

 

Dean furrows his brow, leaning forward. “Why didn't you go to the police?” 

 

“We've had stuff like that happen before. They either didn't believe us or didn't care.”

 

“Because you were girlfriends?” 

 

“I guess.” 

 

“What about her death, Amani? Can you tell us about that?” 

 

“I...she was fine. Laughing, smiling, just dancing around the apartment and cooking dinner. Suddenly she was feeling weak and sick and then she passed out and-” Amani starts to tear up, sniffling, “She didn't wake up.” 

 

“Anything else strange?” 

 

She looks down for a moment before standing and moving to grab something off the counter in the kitchen. She holds up a hexbag, mouth tight. “I found this in the cupboard after. It's not mine, and sure as fuck isn't Sarah's.” 

 

Dean nods, flicking a glance to Cas. He didn't know he was expecting Sam until bright blue eyes met his. He clenches his jaw as his eyes dart away, plucking the hexbag from Amani's palm. “Thank you. We'll take it as evidence for the moment then.” 

 

She nods, wiping her eyes. “I just hope you find out what happened and why.” Her eyes are full of fire when she looks up at Dean. “If someone did something, I hope you fucking gut the bastard.” 

 

Dean gives her a grim look, eyes tight. The Mark gives a sharp twinge, enjoying the idea. It urges Dean and he responds with a firm, “I will.” 

 

“Good.”

 

He and Cas shuffle out, back down the stairs and into Baby. Dean sighs and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, the Mark a low pulse in the back of his mind. 

 

_ Gut the bastard, gut the bastard, gut the bastard, gutthebastardguthimkillhimriptear _ **_blood_ ** \- 

 

“Dean, are you alright?” 

 

Dean jerks, chest heaving as he wrenches himself out of whatever haze the Mark had pulled him into. “Yeah, yeah I'm good,” he dismisses. He turns the key and starts the car, sighing into her rumble. It's soothing, the drive, Baby purring into Dean's aching bones and racing mind. 

 

He pulls into the motel and shuts her off, pulling the hexbag out of his pocket and almost tossing it to Cas. He can feel the words -  _ Hey Sam, go check this out.  _

 

He clenches his teeth and shoves the hexbag back into his pocket. He slams the Impala’s door and storms into the motel room. Cas follows him silently, standing around. 

 

Dean rips open the bag, studying it with eyes narrowed in anger. He can't even see the contents, his mind is so full of who should be here, doing this. He reaches up to rub his thumb against the amulet absently, feels the rage dim. The Mark sputters as Dean takes a moment to breathe. 

 

The voice pounding against him wanes slightly, allowing Dean to work. He knows this job is Sam's, but there is no Sam to do it. He googles and pulls apart the hexbag and what it can do one component at a time. 

 

Castiel is a silent companion to Dean's research. Dean mutters over his shoulder at one point, “Sit the fuck down. Stop standing there like a creep.” Cas takes a seat on one of the beds, leaving Dean to assess the spell used. 

 

Eventually, Dean sits back with a heavy sigh. “It's a low witch with some damn good spells. She doesn't have the juice for what she wants; lots of supplements in the hexbag.” 

 

Cas nods. “She must have access to a spellbook then. Something obscure.” 

 

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “I don't think shit like that is on the internet.” He sighs, staring down at the leather square and its contents. The small cat jawbone looks like a knife; there's still red along the teeth, still blood. 

 

Blood _ bloodgutsbreakrip _ **_tear_ ** \- Dean's hand lunges to the amulet, gripping it and panting softly, heart thrumming in his throat. The Mark softens down to a rumbling growl, low in Dean's chest. 

 

Brushing a thumb over the side of it in time to his shuddering breaths. He stares at the wood grains in the table, the swirls of calm. Everything blurs softly, his head filled with blood like he's stood up too fast. The Mark struggles, Dean's agitated fiddling with the amulet increasing until it succumbs, sinking back into the slump of Dean's spine. 

 

“ _ Dean _ .” 

 

He jerks, Cas standing above him, brows scrunched together in concern. “Dean, are you alright?” 

 

“Fine,” he grunts. “I'm fine.” 

 

“You say that far too much for it to be true, Dean.” 

 

Dean sighs, shaking his head. He doesn't answer, getting to his feet and turning – right into Cas. 

 

Cas is close, far too close. Dean can almost feel the heat from his body, the smell of him; Castiel used to smell like lightning, like thunder. He used to smell like the sky. Now, Cas just smells like human sweat and the sticky sweet scent of syrup. 

 

Cas takes a step back without prompting and Dean steps around him. He loosens his tie and drops it on the bed, loosening his shoelaces and tugging them off. Grabbing his duffle, Dean strides into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. 

 

He turns the hot water all the way on, teeth grit as he strips and gets in. The water burns, like his own small punishment. Something to reprimand him for his loss of control. 

 

When he gets out, naked and dripping, the mirror reveals his skin to be a bright red. Flushed, blood brought to the surface. 

 

Blood, pulsing right under his skin, just waiting to pour out. Dean clenches his eyes closed, breathing in and out steadily. The thoughts drop off as he dries himself before digging through his duffel for clothes and a toothbrush, settling in to attend to himself. 

 

When he comes out of the bathroom, Cas is waiting with pizza, slumped at the table like he's tired. 

 

Like he's human. 

 

Dean brushes off the thought, plopping his bag on the bed and his body at the table. Quietly, he digs into the pizza, Cas across the table, silent as well. 

 

Dean eats and Cas sits, both of them wholeheartedly entertaining the idea that the other one isn't there. Dean isn't sure who's ignoring who or even if anyone was ignoring the other. 

 

Cas finally shifts in his chair, looking at Dean. “What do we do now?” 

 

Looking up, Dean wants to smack him. He thinks for a moment,  _ Jesus you should fucking know, you've done this enough.  _ Then Dean realizes he hasn't done this. Castiel isn't Sam. 

 

Forcing himself to take a breath, Dean rakes back the grief. “We hunt the witch, Cas, before she hurts anyone else.” 

 

Cas nods, and gets to his feet, shuffling over to the other bed. He lays down in it, curling up into a ball. 

 

Dean still doesn't understand why Cas is eating or sleeping. Why he smells more human. Cas isn't human; still too flat, too full of Grace. He sighs, getting up and into his own bed. These are questions that don't matter. As long as Cas does his job. 

 

Dean fights really hard not to think that Castiel's job is being Sam. 


	7. vii

Dean wakes in the morning to the amulet pressing into his cheek, drool crusting at the corners of his mouth. 

 

Blearily he rolls over, rubbing at his eyes. It takes a moment for Dean to realize his hand is wet. Jerking back and staring at it, he can see it's coated in blood. As Dean looks at himself, he can see flecks of it across the blanket, smears across the sheet. 

 

Scrambling back until he hits the headboard, heart in his throat and  pounding against his tongue and inside his teeth. Dean can feel the Mark sink into him, trying to soothe him.  _ This is good.  _

 

Dean feels his heart slow, beat by beat as he gathers himself to look around. Cas is laid out on the other bed, spread wide, the First Blade sticking front his chest. 

 

He can feel the sudden rush of satisfaction before the horrible sets in, the desperation. Frozen, Dean's eyes go wide. The Mark rumbles  _ blood _ and  _ good, how he screamed-  _

 

Dean digs his nails into the Mark, lets them bite into his skin. Cas sits up, staring straight ahead until his head slowly turns to face him. His face is flat, not like an angel, but like death. 

 

“You will murder everyone you love.” 

 

Dean wakes up thrashing and screaming. The blankets tangle with his legs as he falls off the onto the floor, chest heaving. The Mark throbs in time to Dean's heart, both of them fed by his panic. 

 

Breaths stutter and rasp against Dean's throat, shaking his chest with every jolt. His hands claw against the floor as his body fights with itself. 

 

Eventually, Dean calms. Dean breathes. He stares at the ceiling, forcing his muscles to unclench despite the protest. Just as Dean sits up, the door to the bathroom clicks open and Cas comes out, hair sticking up every which way and eyes wide. 

 

“Dean! Dean, are you alright? I heard-” 

 

Bracing an arm against the bed to pull himself up, Dean waves Cas off. “I'm fine, man.” It's at that moment that Dean realizes Cas is wearing nothing but a towel.  “Go get dressed,” he adds. 

 

Castiel hesitates, but after Dean sends him a look he steps back into the bathroom and shuts the door. Dean rests his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands and thinks,  _ What the fuck do I do now _ ? 

 

Dean remembers the glint of the blade calling out to cover it up, bury it under red, dig and pull and rip until there is nothing left. 

 

He heaves, vomit clogging the back of his throat. He can feel his disgust, his revulsion, and alongside it a horrible thrumming  _ want.  _

He itches, burns. He needs. Dean shakes his head violently, tries to throw these thoughts out but they cling. They root and nest and the Mark helps them. 

 

Dean can't help but think that the Mark is a person now. A whole separate entity. Not just a lock and key, not just a curse. It's this unkillable thing, something that cracks Dean right to his core. 

 

He can't help but compare it to a very stubborn and very deadly weed. The thought almost makes him smile before the Mark gives a sharp twinge from his arm. He glares at it, mouth twisting. 

 

Cas exits the bathroom, dressed. He eyes Dean warily but says nothing, quietly gathering his shit. Dean watches him, eyes following his form. The Mark shoves at him,  _ prey.  _

 

Dean jerks, dropping his gaze to the floor. The image of Cas on the bed, blade sticking up, blood splattered everywhere, all over Dean…

 

It breaks him. It has monster written all over it. Dean can't help but think that that's what he's become. Something that needs to be hunted, taken out back and shot. He'd tried, once. Felt the Mark grip him and break him and de-humanize him. Dean had tried to stop it. He'd woken up, covered in his own blood, perfectly fine. 

 

It was then that he knew there would be no end for him. Death was release, and that escape was no more. Not for Dean, never for Dean. His pain would last forever, like most true hurts do. 

 

Dean has killed and harmed and the Mark might whisper. It might tell him he's a release, he's freeing his victims. But Dean knows he's simply their forever. Their long living pain. 

 

Dean comes out of the bathroom, prepared for the day with heavy thoughts and an itchy suit. He tugs at his collar, irritated. There are no leads on who their witch is, or what she wants.

 

The Mark wants blood, and Dean... Dean just wants to do something. He doesn't want to sit around and research, but he knows he'll have to. Yet another of Sam's jobs that falls to Dean in his absence. 

 

Cas is waiting by the door, standing at what looks like attention. Dean huffs and snags his keys, ignoring Cas on his way to the door. Passing by, Dean catches a scent of...shaving cream? Glancing at the angel as he follows Dean out of the room, he quirks a brow to himself. Since when did Cas shave?

 

It's not a question that needs an answer. Dean would rather see if Cas knows anything at all about who their witch might be. 

 

Dean slips into Baby with a huff, breathing in her old leather smell. She's family, despite being an object. Dean knows her better than anything or anyone. 

 

He puts her in reverse, pulls out, and heads to the library. Cas is quiet the whole drive there. Dean breathes into the silence, absently tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. 

 

Dean knows that Cas is beyond capable, but he's not Sam. Somehow, against all logic, deep down Dean feels that Cas can't do it. Can't talk to people properly or can't get the answers they need. So Dean drops Cas off at the library to search through old newspapers to find someone worth looking into. Dean himself heads back to Amani. 

 

The young lady invites Dean in, the bags under her eyes betraying her sleepless nights. Dean wants to be gentle with her. He knows what it is to grieve, but he can't. He needs to find the witch before she kills anyone else. 

 

“Can you think of any connection between Sarah and the other victims?” 

 

Amani shakes her head, picking up her coffee with shaking hands. “Not really. None of them ran in the same circles, if you know what I mean.” 

 

“Is there anyone who would want Sarah dead?” Dean tries to keep his voice low, but urgent. 

 

Taking a shuddering breath, Amani says, “Not dead. I told you about the stalkers, but I don't think they're capable of  _ murder. _ ” 

 

Dean feels frustration growing in his chest. Why can't this be simple, just one  _ fucking _ case - 

 

The rage dissipates as Dean's hand searches out the amulet, the Mark retreating from Dean's mind. He sighs. “Do you have anything useful to tell me Amani? Anything you can think of about connections or enemies?” 

 

Amani shifts, pursing her lips. “Now that I think about it, Sarah went to church. May the other two...victims went to church as well?” 

 

Dean nods, standing. “It's a place to start. Thank you.” 

 

Amani walks him to the door and waves him goodbye, eyes red with swelling tears. Dean furrows his brow, thinking as he fiddles with the amulet. He turns. “I'll find out who did this. I promise.” 

 

She looks at him, taking him apart with her eyes. Dean almost feels like she can see it all, right there under his skin. She turns away, closing the door with a soft, “I know.” 

 

Dean stands in the hall, staring at the door. He can suddenly feel the weight of that promise on his shoulders. For a moment, a single second, he almost regrets making it. 

 

But then again, it's his job. 

 

His job to kill the bad guys, to hunt them down. He grips the Mark tightly, stomping down the stairs. He can't help but wonder what he's supposed to do when the bad guy he needs to hunt is himself. 

 

He makes it back down to Baby and pulls out his phone to send Cas a text. Then Dean starts Baby up and heads to the church that Sarah attended. 

 

The few people there don't have much to say except to confirm that the other two victims also attended that church. Other than that, the victims had nothing in common. No shared classes or friendships. They didn't run in the same circles, at all. 

 

Dean sighs, pulling into the library and rubbing his face. He waits for Cas to get in while loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt. 

 

Cas opens the door and ducks inside, Dean pulling away from the curb. “Anything worth knowing about?” 

 

“There's a man who's lived in this town approximately two hundred years. He's in several newspaper clippings and appears to be the same age in all of them.” 

 

“That's a witch if I've ever seen one. Did he go to church?” 

 

“I believe he is a pastor there.” 

 

Dean crooks a grin, a steady  _ guthimmurderhimyoupromised  _ rising up in his chest. “Bingo.” 

 

Cas gives him this deep look from the passenger seat. It itches under Dean's skin, the feeling dying out as he feel a wave of grief pour into him. 

 

He keeps his eyes on the road, stubbornly not looking at Cas. “You get an address, McFly?” 

 

“I do not understand that reference.” 

 

“You don't need to. Address?” 

 

“Yes.” Cas reads out the address as Dean pulls into the parking lot. As he heads into the motel to change and gather his gear, he can feel the Mark amp up in anticipation. He can feel it thirst and hunger and rage. 

 

Dean expects Cas to pack up his stuff, much like Sam does. Did. 

 

Did, Dean reminds himself. 

 

Cas just stands awkwardly in the room, eyes following Dean as he prepared to go into battle for two people. Dean carries not only that weight, but the weight of Sam like the world on his shoulders. 

 

Dean could still have his brother right now. 

 

He shoves the thought down, yanking open the door and striding out. Cas follows silently behind. 

 

The ride to the address is silent, Castiel staring quietly out the window. Dean tries to subdue the Mark and it's eagerness. He's pretty sure he's failed. 

 

The house they arrive at is small, pathetic, and run down. There's a beat up truck out front, a garden nestled up against the side of the house. Dean fights to control his shaking hand as he walks up to the door. His hand slips into the back of his jeans, pulling out his gun. 

 

Usually, he'd poke around, find out it this really was the monster. But he knows, he can feel it, feel how good this witch's blood is going to be, how good it's going to  _ taste -  _

 

The thought causes Dean to pause, seconds from simply bursting in the door. Those aren't Dean thoughts. With a mass of self restraint, heaps and heaps of it, Dean tucks the gun back into his jeans. He takes a breath to compose himself and the quietly violent rage building in his gut. 

 

When he knocks on the door, instead of his hand returning to his side, it moves to the amulet instead. It helps to push the Mark further down, despite its chants of blood and death. 

 

Cas moves up beside him, still awkward looking in a trench coat. Dean stands next to him, focusing on breathing. Dean does not kill innocent people. 

 

Dean Winchester kills monsters. 

 

_ Lie,  _ the Mark whispers up his spine, pressing smoke against his veins.  _ Liar.  _

 

The door opens, distracting Dean. He takes in the small, stocky man who's wearing a Metallica tee and jeans, looking between Dean and Cas with a displeased face. 

 

His voice is gruff. “What do you want?” 

 

Dean wants to lunge for him, take him down and pummel his face in. But he doesn't, instead reaching into his coat to produce his badge. 

 

“I'm Agent Zepp, this is Agent Mercury. We're here investigating three of your church members’ deaths.” Dean turns up the charm through his stomach full of simmering rage. “We thought you, as head pastor, might know a little somethin’ somethin’.” 

 

The man pensively strokes his chin before opening the door wider with a shrug. “Yeah, sure, maybe. What d’ya wanna know?” 

 

The man leads Dean and Cas down the hall to the living room while Dean asks the questions. He looks at Cas and jerks his head, Cas simply frowns at him. It takes Dean a moment to realize that of course Cas wouldn't know what to do with that, that secret bit of language. 

 

Dean returns his attention to the possible he-witch. “Besides being in your church, what other connections do you believe they might have had?” 

 

The pastor leans back in his chair, slouching slightly. “I'm not sure. I think that Sarah helped with the bake sale, which Dawn and Vicki ran.” 

 

Dean nods sagely, acting like this helps. “Can you give us an overview of each member’s time in the church?”

 

“Oh, o’ course. Let's see, Dawn…” Dean lets his talking fade out as he looks around the home, observing. The house is clean. Not quite suspiciously clean, but enough to set Dean's hackles on edge. 

 

The Mark knocks at the base of Dean's spine. It asks to be let in, to bleed up into his mind. 

 

Dean shoves it down, turning his attention to the man in the chair. He seems like some small town hick, not someone capable of black magic. Dean shifts and stands. “Do you have a bathroom? My lunch isn't really sitting well.” 

 

The man laughs and gestures back behind him, down the hall. “Yeah,” he says. “Down at the end. Please try not to stink it up too bad.” 

 

Dean gives him a tight smile, padding down the hall. He opens all the doors quietly on the way down, finding nothing of import. He can hear Cas’ low rumble and the other man's easy chatter as he does. When he gets to the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and tries to compose himself. 

 

The room is cold, and Dean just dismisses it as a broken heater vent. As he turns to pull the door open though, he swears he sees something out of the corner of his eye. But when he snaps around, the air is empty, even through Dean's expectant and shrewd gaze. 

 

Shaking his head, Dean moves to head back to the living room, only to find it empty. After a glance around, Dean can see the suspect and Cas outside. He shakes his head, wondering how Cas got him out, and if he did it on purpose. 

 

Maybe he was better at the job than Dean thought. 

 

Dean starts to dig, with the man out of the way. He opens all the doors, looking through all the things. It takes three cupboards to find the spell book and four more to find the cat bones. Dean shoves down his glee that someone is gonna bleed. 

The Mark shoves it right back into his throat, kick-starting his heart and sending it into overdrive. Dean swallows against it, the knot in his throat. 

 

He pulls the gun into his hand, the weight of it reassuring where it rests against his palm. He bursts out the screen door, stalking with soft steps to the side of the house, gun down and held in front of him. Cas and the witch are still having what is apparently, a civil discussion. 

 

Dean steps around the corner, lifts the gun up smoothly, and fires a single witch killing bullet right into the back of the motherfucker’s head. 

 

He drops to his knees, face planting into the dirt. Cas looks up, something heavy in his eyes. 

 

“Dean,” he says. “What made you so sure?” 

 

Dean can feel his hackles go up. He feels like he's suddenly on trial for doing his job. “He had all the spell books, all the bones. It was him.” 

 

“Oh you poor, precious little fool.” 

 

Dean spins around, gun snapping up to point at - at seven people, who all look the same. Dean can only blink in surprise before getting thrown back about ten feet, gun going another five. 

 

“The mighty Dean Winchester, and his angel, Castiel. One might think you wouldn't fall for such a simple trap, but, oh well.” The man shrugs, all seven versions of him. 

 

Dean grunts and tries to get up, but he's slammed back into the dirt with a flick of the real witch's hand. Cas summons his angel blade and strides forward. The witch easily slams him into the side of the house with a sharp grin. 

 

“Poor, small, broken angel. You told your little boy toy here what it took to set him free? Mhm? I do so love telling other people's secrets.” 

 

Cas blows his cheek out, straining and pushing forward, skin shining with effort. A thought strikes Dean from where he's pinned. He wonders since when did Cas sweat. 

 

Cas continues to strain, the witch striding towards him and wrapping a hand around his neck. “I wonder how much Grace you've got left, pretty boy. How much left until you just burn out?” He leans in to whisper something to Cas, and Cas pales slightly. 

 

The Mark pulses on Dean's arm, and Dean lets it in. Lets it tear into him, fill him right up, and Dean sits up. The witch doesn't notice as Dean gets to his feet, movements almost mechanical. Man-witch is surprised when Dean grips his shoulder and slams him into the ground with a well placed punch. 

 

The witch laughs under Dean, smirking up at him. “Angel won't be an angel for much longer, Winchester.” The smirk widens. Dean responds by landing his fist in the middle of it. The witch keeps choking out words, smirk still fixed into place.

 

“You won't be human much longer. I guess everything runs out, eh Winchester?” Dean straddles the man's chest, letting his fists fall where they may. Blood coats his knuckles, the witch turning into a bloody pulp, and Dean - 

 

Dean keeps going, punches getting harder and harder, forcing the corpse's neck to snap to the side with a sharp crack. Even then, Dean is narrow-minded. Fist in, pull back, fist in, pull back, over and over again. The Mark screams inside of him, filling him up, blotting out the sun and the blood. 

 

Dean screams at the fucker under him, screams at the backs of his own eyelids. He screams at his arm and at his chest where his soul breaks. He screams and hits and feels the body’s skull give under the force, Dean's fist striking right to the brain. He cuts himself on the sharp edges of bone, raising his hand for another blow. 

 

Castiel grasps his wrist, blood and brain matter and all. Dean's teeth slide together, screeching in his jaw. His hand trembles, works to come down again. The Mark pushes it all away, the Mark demands more, demands to be satisfied. 

 

Dean can't hear anything besides his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. It has a clouded feel to it, like it's cushioned by smoke. Smoke that pulses up Dean's spine and tastes like blood and tastes like death and tastes like the  _ rack.  _

 

Dean's hand goes slack in Cas’, his fist becoming loosely curled fingers as he stares at the body below him. His hand fumbles for the necklace, his own disgust coming into sharp relief as the Mark swirls back down. Dean feels sick, he feels dirty, he feels like he's crossed a very important line. 

 

But he doesn't feel guilty. He promised. 

 

_ Guthimbrainhimwhat'sthedifferenceheisdead _

 

Dean slumps back against Cas’ leg, letting his eyes shut. What has he done? Dean feels Cas let go of his hand, feels it drop to the ground, blood dripping from his fingers.

 

He sits there, breathing. It's all he can do until the stench hits him and then he lurches forward, hand planted into the soil. He hurls, every single bad feeling rising up through his throat and out his mouth. He wonders if he'll choke up smoke, that desperate, bloody fire inside. 

  
Dean wonders, as he sits finger deep in blood and vomit and his hand bleeds from someone's skull - he wonders if this is what finally turns him into a monster. 


	8. viii

They clean it up, Dean's shame. They burn the evidence of it. They work together, Cas with his tightly pressed mouth and Dean with his tightly pressed humanity. Dean is numb and Cas is silent. 

 

It's Cas who suggests simply burning the house down. No one owns it, anymore. No one will want to own it later. 

 

It's Dean who spreads the gasoline around, it's Dean who lights the match. 

 

It's both of them who watch it burn. 

 

They walk back to the Impala in silence, the night lit up behind them in orange and red and yellow. They get in the car, almost in sync, both watching the house burn to the ground. Dean turns to Cas. 

 

“What did he mean?” 

 

Cas’ furrowed brow deepens. He doesn't want to say a fucking word, but Dean will make him if he has to. The Mark says that he wants to, and Dean tells it that it's wrong.

 

“What did who mean about what, Dean?”  

 

“Don't fucking play stupid with me, Cas.” Dean curls his fingers around the steering wheel, so tight his knuckles turn white. He clenches his jaw. “ _ What did he mean? _ ” 

 

Cas stares straight ahead, watching someone else's life go up in flames. It's like he's denying to himself that his is doing the exact same thing. “Dean -” he starts coolly. Calmly. Collected and put together, everything Dean isn't and Dean needs to fucking know what's wrong with Cas so he can fix it. 

 

“Don't you fucking finish that sentence unless you're going to tell me what's wrong.” Dean can look too, look at the flame and the smoke and feel it writhe in his ribs. 

 

A heavy sigh from the passenger seat. “Start the car, Dean. Start the car and I'll tell you.” 

 

Dean doesn't know why Cas wants to leave so bad. But he obeys, sliding his hands to the keys and turning Baby on. He'd laugh at the thought if he wasn't busy being consumed by blind rage. “Tell me,” Dean says. 

 

“Drive,” Cas counters. Dean shifts and backs away, driving through the trees. He wants to grab Cas by the shoulders and shake him until he says something, but instead he lets Cas get it out on his own time. 

 

Dean knows the long ways home. 

 

As the billowing smoke vanishes from the rear view mirror, Cas finally decides to speak. 

 

“Finding you was hard. You had a body, buried in the Earth, locked away beneath wards and sigils and in a place crawling in demons. I imagine Death wanted to keep anyone from disturbing you.” 

 

“That's kinda the idea, man,” Dean grits out. 

 

Cas is quiet for a beat, for a mile. “It was difficult to find you, even more so to retrieve you. Yet, I persisted and retrieved your body, but that was not the end of it. You were not simply locked in your mind as I had thought. You were on some other plane entirely, with the thinnest tether to your body.” 

 

Dean drives in silence, letting the words wash over him. Unnecessary words, just Cas trying to put off the truth. 

 

“So I retrieved you. I expended far too much Grace to do so.” 

 

Dean's pissed that Cas didn't tell him, but he's relieved. “So you're just becoming human? That's it?” 

 

“...No, Dean.” 

 

Dean clenches his jaw, foot pressing slightly harder on the gas. “What then?” 

 

“Even when falling, the Grace turns itself into a mockery of a soul, leaving an angel human. I burnt through that. My Grace is burning out, much like a soul fizzles out when used for a spell.” 

 

“So you'll be soulless.” 

 

A sigh. “No, Dean. I'll be dead.” 

 

Dean closes his eyes for a brief moment. He had been grasping at straws to avoid hearing that. It was out in the open now, however. Unavoidable. 

 

“No,” Dean stated harshly. “No, you won't be. I'm going to save you.” 

 

“Dean, that's impossible-”

 

“No, it isn't. You're not going to die, Cas. Not while I can do something.” 

 

“There's nothing for you to do. Besides, you should be looking into the Mark.” 

 

“I don't care about the fucking Mark, Cas!”  

 

“Dean, please -” 

 

“No! I'm not going to just stand aside and let you die!” 

 

“Yet, you expect me to let you turn into a monster.” 

 

The words hurt, somewhere inside, but they also... don't _. That's because you're already a monster, aren't you? _ Dean shoves the thought into his ribs, grips the steering wheel and glares out at the road. He doesn't respond to Cas, and Cas says nothing back. 

 

There's nothing that Dean can say. What does he say to that?  _ Oh yeah, thanks, already am one. No need to worry!  _

 

Dean drives straight through the night, not caring a single fucking bit about anything. Well, that's a lie. He cares a lot. He cares when eventually, Cas slumps against the window and falls asleep. 

 

It takes four exits and fifty miles to realize that Dean is surprisingly okay with it. It's not Sam, and while that sucks, it's Cas. Cas who's soon to be dead. 

 

Because of Dean. 

 

Dean passes another exit, eyes intent on the road. It's one of those nights where it's dark, so dark you can't see the stars. 

 

Cas breathes out against the glass of Baby’s window, fogging it up. Dean feels something tight in his throat when he glances over. 

 

_ Dead.  _

 

Dean's eyes twitches.  _ No.  _ The word bounces around his brain like a firecracker, echoing sharply. It stops making sense after a while, but Dean keeps letting it speak. Letting it set him in motion. Dean's gonna save Cas, and it doesn't matter how. 

 

He'll do it. 

 

Cas stirs about half an hour from the bunker. He sits up and tries to make it look like he hasn't been sleeping. 

 

Dean gives him a few moments to wake up, get his mind going. He tried to give him longer, but the words burn on his tongue, bullying their way out. “Why didn't you tell me?” 

 

Cas seems to have been expecting that. “It doesn't matter.” 

 

“It doesn't matter? Cas, it's your  _ life _ .” 

 

“Which,” Cas points out, “you have asked me to give several times in the past for you and Sam.” 

 

Dean's stunned and hurt and angry. “I - that's different. The world was on the line.” 

 

“Perhaps sometimes, but not every time. I did not see what difference telling you would make.” 

 

“Cas, I'm your friend!” Dean protests. “I should know if you're fucking  _ dying _ . What were you going to do, just die and leave me with no explanation, no chance to save you?” 

 

“You have a bad habit of making things worse when you try to fix them.” 

 

And damn, if that doesn't hit home, right in the center of Dean's chest. It hurts. The words burn inside him. He's heard them, or some variant of them, from a lot of different people. He never thought he'd hear them from Cas, who used to believe in Dean.

 

Used to believe in the Righteous Man.

 

Dean can only tighten his mouth into a thin line. He finally responds when he pulls into the bunker’s garage. “You should have told me. I shouldn't find out from a witch, of all people.” 

 

“It doesn't matter who you found out from.” 

 

“Fuck, Cas you should have told me! We could have spent the last month searching for a cure! A way to slow it down or stop it or -” 

 

Cas’ voice is flat. “There is no cure, Dean. Stop trying.” 

 

“Why the fuck can't you have a little faith?” 

 

“Faith, Dean?  _ Faith?  _ After all of this, and you are asking  _ me _ for  _ faith _ ?” 

 

Dean realizes it was a stupid move. “I -” 

 

“The one thing,” Cas says quietly, fiercely, “that I've always had faith in has let me down far too many times.” 

 

Cas opens the door and gets out, shuffling into the depth of the bunker, leaving Dean alone in Baby, the sound of her door slamming shut caught in between his ears. 

 

It echoes in the empty space where his ribs should be. He feels carved out, hollow. Dean feels the rage build, can taste it in his mouth. He lets out a shout and slams his hands into the steering wheel, and then again and again. He wishes there was something to  _ sink  _ his fist into, let his hate and fear and pain sink with it. But there's nothing except a scared little boy in shoes too big and a car that's far too empty. 

 

Dean can feel the itch in his nose, the pressure at his eyes. He's not going to cry.  _ Pathetic,  _ the Mark whispers up his nerves. Dean beats his palms against the steering wheel until they sting, his jaw clenched as he bites back his tears. He rests his forehead against the steering wheel, lets himself breathe for a small moment. 

 

He feels it like a physical blow, the way Cas is just accepting it. He wonders if Cas only found out afterwards what it would cost him, but he knows. Deep down, Dean knows that Cas knew and still paid the price anyways. He doesn't need to wonder why, but he shies away from the answer all the same. 

 

Dean focuses on breathing. He counts and recites his favorite song lyrics and then does it backwards and it doesn't help. Doesn't help the panic and rage festering like an open wound. Dean's breath hitches, eyes flickering. The Mark gives a sharp twinge from his arm, pushing thoughts of blood and bone and revenge at Dean. 

 

He tries to breathe past it and fails. Bone fills up his mind, what it would be like to break it, to shatter it to pieces. Blood paints the insides of it, burns through his brain like acid. It should hurt, but it doesn't. What hurts is - 

 

_ Let me down far too many times.  _

 

Dean's eyes twitches and a single tear falls through all his false  _ I'm fine _ ’s. He's not. Dean Winchester is not fine. 

 

He will pretend to be. He will ignore that all he can taste is blood, and he dreams about it. He will ignore all the pain and he will fix Cas. Dean will out him back together, all by himself. Cas will be okay, once Dean gives into the Mark. Dean will be terror, something unkillable that haunts people's dreams, but Cas will be okay. 

 

He has to be. 

 

Dean swallows sharply, throat bobbing. He takes a deep breath. He steels himself, carefully stacks his walls up. He pushes his main command to  _ Save Cas.  _

 

He sits back and looks up, and sitting there like the past year hasn't happened is Sam. 

 

Sam, sprawled everywhere in Baby's seat, overgrown body hogging the whole passenger side. 

 

Sam, looking pale and haggard, but there. 

 

Dean reaches out a hand, just to touch the closest part of his brother, a knee. His hand falls right through, not connecting with anything but the soft leather upholstery of Baby. 


	9. ix

“Sam.” A croak, silent and flat. Almost nothing but an acknowledgement. Then, “Sam?” Inflection, meaning. A thousand questions, rolled into a single name. 

 

_ How? What, when, where? Why?  _

 

Sam looks at him, this surprised expression caught on his face. Eyes wide, brows raised, he blurts, “You can see me?” 

 

“I can see you.” His brain is so wrapped up in seeing his little brother that it takes him a few moments to notice how Sam is slightly see-through. There's a blurred edge to him, like he's a particularly bad photo. 

 

Sam is a ghost. 

 

“Oh thank God. I've been trying to talk to you since the other day. Since you found the - the amulet.” 

 

Dean won't even try to hold it in. “Why the fuck did you stay?” 

 

“I wasn't about to leave you all alone, Dean.” 

 

Dean can only shake his head. “You damn fool. You couldn't just - just move on?” Dean's pissed, he knows. He's upset that Sam has to suffer, even in death. 

 

The Mark shoves the memory at him, his hands gripping the scythe, Sam's blood a beautiful arc in the air. Dean presses his lips together, white knuckling the steering wheel as he tries to shove the memory down. 

 

Sam's head, falling to the floor. The light in his eyes dying out, blood spilling to lap at Dean's shoes, hungry with accusation. Death's hand on his shoulder, grip bony and cold. 

 

Dean's eye twitches as the memory slinks away. He takes a breath. Pauses. Takes another. 

 

There's an expectant silence waiting for Dean when he finally gets out of his own head. Sam has said something or asked something and Dean didn't hear, didn't listen, didn't stop to think about killing his baby brother - 

 

“What?” is a simple solution. Sam repeats himself. 

 

“Of course I couldn't just 'move on’, Dean. You're my brother.” Dean turns to stare at Sam, still wearing a flannel and canvas jacket. 

 

Still here. 

 

Dean shoves the words out like they're burning him. In way, they probably are. “You were supposed to be happy.” 

 

Sam's nose and mouth scrunch up in a half smile, like the one Sam gives Dean when pretending to be amused by his antics. “You would have found a way to bring me back, anyways. What was the point in going if I didn't get to stay?” 

 

Dean feels hollow, scraped empty. “I wasn't - I wasn't planning on coming back, Sam.” 

 

“Then why did you?” 

 

“Cas - Cas made me.” 

 

“When, at any point in your life, has Cas made you do anything you didn't really want to do?” 

 

“I - he -” 

 

“Dean,” Sam slips in, “Don't try to convince me of anything. You're not on trial, you know?” 

 

Sighing and dragging a hand down his face, Dean looks to Sam and then away. He stares at the concrete in front of Baby's hood like maybe it holds all the answers. It doesn't, but the silence gives Dean time to assemble his thoughts. 

 

He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to factor Sam into this mess, but Sam is here. Sam is dead. Dean needs to fix that, since Sam was a stubborn ass that didn't move on when he was supposed to. 

 

Dean pops open Baby's trunk and gets out. He leans on her for a moment, breathing. It's harder than it should be. He gathers up the bags and heads in, Sam hovering or walking or fucking gliding for all Dean knows. Either way, Sam follows him in, still a lumbering giant, but he's quiet. His feet don't make a sound, not even a whisper or a scuff. 

 

It grates on Dean, grates on the Mark. It hates not hearing its prey and - Dean walks faster. Sam is  _ not _ prey. 

 

He pushes open the door into the bunker, moving through the maze with ease. Once, it had been hard to navigate the damn thing, but now Dean's sure he could do it with his eyes closed. 

 

Dean drops his bag on his bed, the guns on the wall glinting in the light from the hall. He sighs, and turns to Sam. Even in death, he manages to tower over Dean. He never commanded the same presence Dean did, never turned heads with a word. But he's Sam, too big and broad  _ Sam.  _

 

It takes his eyes flicking to the wall, the chip in the cement of the ceiling before Dean rests his eyes on Sam to actually look at him. He's wearing the same thing he was when he - 

 

When he died. 

 

_ When you lopped his head off. When you murdered him, sank that scythe right into his pretty little neck -  _

 

Dean bites off the thought, turning around and digging through his bag with a huff. He starts putting things away, trying to ignore Sam. Trying to ignore the amulet bouncing  against his chest, heavily foreign and familiar all in one. 

 

As he passes Sam, silent and watching, he sees it. The thin line, no bigger than a hair that goes right around his neck. It spans Sam's neck like hands, like death. 

 

Dean presses his lips together and ignores it, ignores the pain in his chest, the Mark whispering indistinctly. He puts his clothes away, hoping the flannels and denim will hide the tremor in his hands, the skin that twitches on his shoulder and arm. 

 

It's only when Dean has run out of things to put away, things to hide behind, that Sam finally says something. 

 

“Dean, c'mon. You can't ignore me forever.” 

 

He turns on his heel, glaring at Sam. “What, exactly, am I supposed to fucking do with you? What, you're just gonna hang around the bunker until you remember that I'm the one who -” Dean cuts off, face twisting. If he doesn't say it, it's not real. “What then, Sam?” 

 

Sam's face is impassive. Smooth, carefully blank. Dean waits for a light to flicker, or to explode. Waits for Sam to rage at him, but instead his words are simple. “I forgive you.” 

Dean can't bring himself to understand, to comprehend. He shakes his head. “How?” 

 

Sam stares at him, shifts his stance. He's giving Dean that look that he gets when he thinks Dean's being stupid, or when he's not getting something that's seemingly obvious. “You're my brother, Dean.” 

 

That's always been their argument. Always been a reason to do what they do. It's sometimes dismissed, waved to the side, only to be dragged back days, weeks, months later. Now, here and for this, Dean's the one to shove it aside. 

 

It hurts. “So?” 

 

“ _ So _ ? You went to Hell because I'm your brother. Why wouldn't I forgive you for doing what you thought was best? Besides, it's…” 

 

“It's  _ what, _ Sam?” 

 

He meets Dean's eyes, tilts his jaw slightly. “It's time someone did the right thing. We we're always - always trying to save the world and each other, and sometimes that just isn't what happens, Dean. We did it anyways, and people got hurt because of that.” 

 

“People get hurt all the time, Sam.” 

 

Sam looks at him, face broken. “When did you give up, Dean?” 

 

“I haven't given up, Sam. I've just seen the truth. No matter how many people we save, we'll always hurt more. The scales never even out, Sam.” 

 

“Dean…” 

 

Dean shakes his head and walks out. Sam vanishes behind him, leaving Dean feeling more alone, more empty than before. Spinning the ring on his finger, he goes to the library. He selects a few more books on resurrection, ignoring the ones about angels. He pours himself a glass of whiskey. 

He reads and he drinks. 

 

He skips over passages that talk about death for life, or the ones that talk about demons. Dean's already close to being one, anyways, and while he might enjoy going to hell this time around, he'd like to look at other options. 

 

He has other options, now. 

 

It's been hours when he finally closes the last book in his stack. Seven books and no Cas, no Sam. He takes a swig straight from the bottle and tilts his head back, sighing heavily. He's tired. He can feel the drag of his eyes. 

 

He isn't tired enough to sleep. He doesn't want the dreams. Dean knows he'll dream of Sam, of blood. 

 

Dean takes another drink and shoves away from the table. He picks up the books and puts them away, plucking yet another pile off the shelves. When he sets them down, he can feel his arm shake, his whole hand vibrating. 

 

Eyes going out of focus, the titles embossed on the covers of the books go blurry. Need swirls in Dean's gut, his mouth filling with metal. He needs the Blade, needs blood and death and - 

 

Dean slams his hand on the table, bending over and rocking back onto his heels. He refuses to give in, refuses to let the Mark control him. His hand is steady now, fingers splayed across the wood table. 

 

_ Castiel,  _ the Mark hisses.  _ Castiel has the Blade.  _

 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Ignore it. Breathe in. Breathe out. Ignore it. Breathe in - 

 

_ Castiel. Ask. Take. Find.  _

 

Breath out. 

 

_ Find it.  _

 

Ignore it. 

 

_ Find the Blade.  _

 

Breathe in. 

 

_ Take the Blade back. _

 

Breathe out. 

 

_ Kill. Tear him apart when he doesn't tell you. _

 

Ignore it. 

 

Ignore the voice scratching at his head. Ignore the want in his hands, the need in his mind, push it away, bury it, destroy it.

 

Breathe in. 

 

Breathe out. 


	10. x

Cas finds him on Runner Street, approximately twenty five miles from the bunker. Dean knows this because the mile counter in Baby's dash said twenty three when he got out and walked for another two. 

For those few miles, Dean is covered in a surprising amount of blood. His hands are coated in it. In the last of light, it looks black, but Dean knows it's red. Knows, because there's a streetlight fifty feet back, and the blood was red. 

 

For all this knowing of miles and feet and lights and blood, Dean has no idea when Cas arrives. It's just mindless violence, knife slipping between ribs and through them, the crunch of bone and the smell of blood.

 

Then there's Cas, Dean with no knife, held tight and defenseless against him. He tilts his head back to scream and there's a sharp pinch in his neck. It's like a switch - one moment, he enjoys the blood on him, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. The next, he feels sick. He shakes body going lax. 

 

Cas lowers him to the ground, carefully. Dean looks up at the sky, starts barely visible from the light the city puts off. His voice is rough, with bile or emotion he'll never tell. 

 

“What happened?” 

 

Cas doesn't answer, but Dean can see the tan of his trenchcoat moving around. Instead of answering the question Dean asked, he answers another one that's fluttering around in his skull. 

 

“It's not human. Looks to be a dog,” Cas’ voice is flat. 

 

Dean feels relief hit him like a ton of bricks. He sits up, pushes himself to sit, locking his elbow to stay upright. 

 

The dog is a mess. Fur everywhere, bone sticking out at odd angles, meat hanging from it, too thick and heavy to move. The headlights catch on it, glinting off the blood and bone and illuminating Dean's failure. Dean clamps his eyes shut and turns away, not wanting to look any more. 

 

He never wants to look again. 

 

Dean takes a quaking breath and pushes out through numb lips, “What happened?” He opens his eyes to look at Cas, and not the body. Not the body. 

 

Cas ignores him and Dean closes his eyes again. He wonders if Cas just doesn't know, or if he's busy, or if he really just couldn't give a fuck. 

 

Dean lost control, that much is obvious. The Mark dug its heels in and took the driver's seat. Dean can vaguely remember driving here, vaguely remember calling the dog over before slitting its throat and dragging it into the shadows. 

 

He remembers these things the way he remembers being a demon. Vaguely. 

 

Cas eventually drags the body into the bushes, smearing blood across the pavement. Dean feels strong enough by that point to stand, turning his back on the whole mess. He spots the Continental by the curb, parked under a light. 

 

Castiel moves back up beside him, blood smeared into his clothes and all up his hands. Dean doesn't have anything to say except - “Seltzer water and lemon juice. For the blood.” 

 

Cas gives him a look before striding away. Dean follows, tucking his hands into his pockets, blood crusting on his hands. Cas yanks open the door to the Continental and slides in, glaring out. Dean propels himself and his shame around the hood and into the passenger seat as Cas starts the car. 

 

The silence in the cab is heavy as Cas turns the car around. They pass a church before Dean points, voice quiet. “I parked Baby over there.” 

 

Cas seems almost like he's just going to drive past, keep going right back to the bunker. But he turns, pulling up behind Baby and parking, silent. 

 

Dean waits for something, anything - an acknowledgement, a directive. Nothing comes. He gets out and walks over to Baby, his chest loosening when he's inside her. He starts her and pulls out of the lot, Cas following close behind. His headlights loom in Dean's mirror, accusing and reassuring all in one.

 

They make it to the bunker, pulling into the garage. The sound of two motors is slightly jarring, Dean only used to Baby's loud purr. Cas’ shuts off first, the sound of his door slamming before Dean can turn Baby off. By the time Dean is out of the driver's seat, Castiel is waiting for him, eyes flat and face blank. 

 

Dean turns and walks into the bunker, Cas following so close behind Dean swears he can feel his body heat. Dean nervously fingers at the amulet, letting his thumb run across the face. He's just smearing blood across it, but there isn't much else to do. 

 

Dean turns for the showers, but Cas just pushes Dean past the hall. Dean keeps walking, right to the library. He sits and reaches for the whiskey, only to find that it's a table away. Castiel stands between him and the bottle, towering over Dean. 

 

“What happened, Dean?” 

 

“Leave it, Cas.” 

 

“You killed a dog. It could have been a human. I can't just 'leave it.’ We need to get rid of the Mark, Dean.” 

 

“Well, we can't, I'm sorry to say. It releases somebody big and bad and the last thing this world needs is another Winchester apocalypse.” 

 

“Dean, we need to -” 

 

“I don't care!” Dean stands, chair screeching back against the cement. “I don't care,” he repeats, lower but no less fierce. “Why won't you let me go insane in peace?” 

 

“Because  _ I  _ care, Dean Winchester. I care about you.” 

 

Dean turns away, uncomfortable with the words. With what they imply, with the look on Castiel's face. His voice is low, deep and lacking inflection. “Maybe you should start caring about something else, Cas. Like the world, for a start.” 

 

Cas places his palms flat on the table, leaning forward, and Dean can feel Cas’ eyes on him, feel the sincerity that's leveled at him. “I don't care about the world, Dean. I  _ choose _ you. I raised you from perdition once, and I can do so again.” 

 

_ You have no faith.  _

 

The words scratch at Dean, itch under his skin. He wants to ask who he's supposed to have faith in, but he doesn't. He pushes past Cas to grab the bottle of whiskey and then he walks away. Castiel lets him, surprisingly. Doesn't say a word, even though Dean knows he's watching him go.

 

Dean makes it to his room before he notices Sam, floating along behind him. When Dean turns, surprised, to acknowledge him, Sam stares at him and says, “You should let Cas help.” 

 

Shaking his head and using his shoulder to shove open his door, Dean doesn't respond. Instead he flips the top off the whiskey and lets it slide down his throat with a relieved sigh. He wonders if he drinks enough if it'll burn the Mark right out of him. He knows that he's tried that, more than once, and it fails to work, every time.

 

_ Maybe this time. Maybe never.  _ He takes another drink.  _ Maybe this time.  _

 

Sam follows him in, predictably. “Dean, I'm serious. You need to get rid of the Mark.” 

 

“That's what you were trying to do, Sam, and look where that got you,” Dean fires back, picking at the label of his bottle as he sits heavily on the bed.

 

“Dean -” 

 

“No,” Dean snarls. “Don't, Sam. I don't want to hear your next bullshit plan to save me. There's no point.” Dean drinks again. 

 

“There  _ is _ a point, Dean. Saving you -” 

 

“ - Isn't worth the world, Sam. It never has been.” 

 

When Sam vanishes, for whatever reason, Dean has only himself to blame for it. He lays back on the bed and stares at the ceiling while time passes. He doesn't mark it in seconds, but rather in how empty his bottle gets. 

 

After he polishes off the whiskey, he gets to his feet, not even swaying even though he feels plenty buzzed. When he gets to the library, it's empty, the lights out. Dean flicks them on, grabs the stack of books set out on the table and sits down to read. 

 

In three and a half hours of reading, Dean has fully absorbed maybe an entire sentence and two bottles of alcohol. He feels good, like his hands aren't still smeared with dried blood. He leans back, staring at the ceiling and wonders if it's worth getting up to get another bottle. 

 

Sam showing up surprises him. He looks at Dean sadly, sits down sadly, just  _ is  _ sadly. Dean drags himself into a proper sitting position, eyes lidded as he gazes blearily at Sam. 

 

“Found anything useful?” 

 

“Aw, you know me, Sammy. I suck at researching. S’why it's  _ your  _ job.” Dean pokes a finger in Sam's direction. 

 

“It's not my job anymore, Dean.” 

 

He wants to stop pushing. He knows. Still, he keeps going. “Sure it is. Get going, nerd.” 

 

“Dean -” 

 

“S’not like you're dead.” The words have an impact on them both. Sam stiffens, his face closing, while Dean slumps lower in his chair, brow scrunched while he tries to drunkenly puzzle Sam out. 

 

“Go to bed, Dean. You're not useful to anyone drunk.” 

 

“I'm useful to  _ me  _ drunk,” he tries to argue. Considering that the words come out too slurred to understand doesn't help to prove his point. 

 

Sam stares at him, and Dean is too drunk to understand what he's trying to say. So he sighs and gets to his feet, stumbling off to his bed. He falls onto it, lopsided, hand draping over the side, barely brushing the cold concrete of the floor.  

 

He stares blankly at the wall, silent and aching. His hand twitches and he brushes cold glass under the bed. Dean decides to leave the beer alone and rolls over to stare at the ceiling. 

 

He falls asleep that way, and dreams of blood flecks landing on his tongue and burning out the demon in him. It's only when he opens his eyes that he finds a dead Sam, blood leaking from him, from everywhere, burning Dean anywhere it touches him, eats at him like acid.

 

Dean wakes up gasping, clawing at his neck because it burns, he can feel it running down the back of his throat, feel the blood surging through him. Only after a minute or two passes does he go lax, panting raggedly in the small bunker room. 

 

He breathes, and he calms. It's a long time before the phantom burn subsides and his hand stops trembling, the fierce want that made his knees weak fading. The Mark retreats, leaving Dean's broken, utterly human mind alone. 

  
The only thing that fills it is the thought that Dean's going to be sick. 


	11. xi

Dean will not remember much of anything for a few days. He'll remember when he's barely sober to go out and buy beer, or whiskey, or anything that has the remote possibility of getting drunk with. He drinks himself to sleep, drinks himself awake, and then just to top it off, drinks himself through the day. 

 

Dean scrubs at his hands in the shower, nearly rubbing his skin raw. When he wakes up and can taste blood on his tongue, he checks his bed, checks his clothes. He looks for blood, and finds nothing. But he tastes it. 

 

He starts to memorize exactly how many miles Baby has before going to bed, and checking it in the morning before his first drink. The Mark is quiet, but it's a constant presence, always throbbing. 

 

Dean's hand hasn't stopped shaking. 

 

Sam sometimes shows up, pale and drawn and Dean drunkenly ignores him. Castiel sometimes stares sadly at Dean before lowering another stack of books to the table to quietly read. Dean makes few comments on the titles, which are vastly different from his own. 

 

While Dean reads old deeds of necromancy, Cas is reading about the Mark, like Sam and Dean haven't scoured every single page of them for something useful. Cas finds nothing, but that doesn't bother Dean. 

 

Dean knows what he's becoming. Dean Winchester knows he's doomed. 

 

However, Dean doesn't find anything either. Nothing at all. It's only after days of drunken reading, which might be the reason he can't understand a fucking lick of it, that Dean throws his book down, slams his bottle on the table, and storms out. 

 

He goes outside, into the light rain, and he just breathes. It's like he forgot how. The mist coats his hair and clings to his jacket, and he sobers, the alcohol in his veins fading as his head clears. He can feel blood pounding behind his eye, feel a headache scraping at his spine. He rubs his head and sighs, leaning against the railing. 

 

“You can't hide forever, Dean.” 

 

Dean spins around to face Sam, who's hovering a few feet away. He looks aimless, hurt, his face drawn tight in sympathy. “What are you doing here, Sam?” 

 

“You need help. You can't just hope that it goes away. Let us help you, Dean.”

 

Dean huffs slightly, braces his hands back against the rail. “Look what happened the last time you tried to 'help’, Sam.” 

 

“Dean, that wouldn't have happened if you would have let me help you!” 

 

“Oh, so now it's all on me, is that it? Everything is my fault.” Dean's hands tighten against the railing, his ring pressing into his skin uncomfortably.

 

“That's not what I meant and you know it.” 

 

Dean and Sam stare at each other, silent and stubborn. Dean swallows tightly and is the first to drop his gaze. 

 

“You need help. You don't need to fight it on your own, Dean, you don't need to be alone.” 

Dean fires back, unthinking. “I am alone, Sam. You're  _ dead _ , and the sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be. Cas is gonna  _ be  _ dead soon and nothing will have changed. I'll still be here, fighting this  _ thing _ .”

 

Sam is silent for only a moment before responding, level in the face of Dean's hostility. “We care about you, Dean, enough to help you. I stayed to help you -” 

 

“And Cas gave up half his Grace and you died and everyone I love ends up dead. I know how it goes, Sam, you don't need to tell me again.” 

 

“That wasn't what I was going to say.” 

 

“No, you were gonna sugarcoat it or lie. I know you, Sam.” 

 

“Dean, would you just let us help you?” 

 

“I don't want your help, Sam. Look what your idea of help gets us.” Dean sneers half-heartedly, and Sam's brow scrunches in hurt. 

 

“I'm the one who's dead, Dean. I know what I gave up, and there's no point in stopping now.” 

 

“Goddamit Sam! I don't want you to give up anymore. I'm trying to save what little you have left and you're so eager to just fucking throw it away!” Dean glares through Sam, hands sweating against the rail. 

 

“You're my brother, Dean. I died for you -”

 

Dean's voice is slightly bitter. “It would be nice if you could stop reminding me about that fact.” 

 

“Dean, just listen to me -” 

 

“No,” Dean says, his voice flat and cold. “I'm done listening to your insistent bullshit that I can be cured. In fact,” Dean continues, arm burning, the Mark writhing under his skin, “you wanna know what I think about your stupid  _ help _ , Sam?” 

 

“Please, would you just -”

 

Dean's done. His hands shake as he spins around, ripping the amulet from over his head and chucking it as far as he can into the fields surrounding the bunker. Then he turns on his heel and pushes into the bunker, the metal door slamming shut behind him. 

 

Sam, because he can't or won't, doesn't follow him inside. 

 

Dean storms down the stairs, hands shaking still, rage thick on his tongue. The Mark churns inside him, roots clinging to Dean's bones, and Dean can only invite it further in. He invites the poison in and lets it fill him out, lets it shore him up and hold him upright.

 

Dean makes it to the gun range, hands fumbling with the door to push it open, he lets the lights come on and just grabs the nearest gun to shoot at a target. He doesn't put on the goggles or the ear muffs, and just unloads a whole clip into one target. He's mindless when he grabs another and lets the  _ pop pop pop  _ numb him even more. 

 

The anger doesn't abate, not in the slightest, no matter how many bullets Dean puts into the paper. Dean shakes his head, slamming the gun down onto the small shelf in front of him. His breaths are quick, ragged and forcefully pulled from his chest. His skin feels hot, itchy from the underside. It's so bad that Dean can't even feel the Mark inside him, coiling in his soul. 

 

Dean bends and rests his elbows on the stand, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels. Slowly he starts to breathe in time to the rhythm, the frenzy inside calming only slightly. He lets his mouth part on a breath, his eyes closing. It's a long time before his hands stop trembling, before the Mark slips back into wherever it hides. 

 

He takes a few more deep breaths before rocking to his feet. His mind is clearer, and he can see the paper, fifty yards away. It's shot to shit, more holes than paper. There's a small chip in the stand where Dean had slammed the gun down. He looks at his hands, and at the signs of all his inability to control himself. He looks and he takes it in and he walks away. 

 

The lights flick off on their own an hour after he leaves. 

 

The first thing that Castiel asks when he sees Dean is, “Where's Sam?” 

 

There's a multitude of answers that Dean can give Cas, but he goes with the simplest and most painful answer. “He's dead.” 

 

Cas looks taken aback, his head tilting a hair. “...Yes,” is his slow response, “but where is he?” 

 

Dean sits with a huff, staring at the stack of books he doesn't remember reading. They're all old, falling apart at the seams, and Dean doesn't even know why he's reading them. They can't help him, they aren't helping Sam or Cas or anyone who's fucking dead. Dean snaps at Cas, “I don't fucking know, man, just let it go.” 

 

Cas stares at him, silent and partially hidden behind his own stack of books. In the light, the books seem defensive, ready to fight Dean if they need to. Dean resolutely doesn’t look at Cas, doesn't even acknowledge his existence. 

 

Dean picks a book off the top of the pile, but before he can open it and settle in for another session of fruitless reading, Cas finally responds. “You're going to waste away, Dean, unless you accept help.” Then Cas gets up and strides out of the library and out of the bunker. The door closing comes with a sense of finality that Dean finds hard to escape. 

 

He opens the book and settles in to read. The first three are useless, the fourth is promising but nothing concrete, and the fifth is necromancy. Dean wouldn't usually stop to read useless and unnecessarily dark magic, but he's desperate. He can't feel his desperation, but it controls him even through the constant cloud of wrath that fogs his brain. 

 

Dean thumbs through it absently, the pages cracking open on a particularly bloody scene. He can feel the Mark stretch out inside his bones and murmur,  _ That would be easy. _

 

A few more pages slip down, another gruesome picture displaying on the page, shivers rake up Dean's spine. His hand begins to tremble faintly and he can't rip his eyes away. It's like the first time he watched porn. 

 

The Mark only slithers around inside him, hissing in delight,  _ Easy, we could do it, look how pretty.  _

 

Dean's mouth is wet, want coiling in his stomach. The picture is hand sketched, probably in blood, and very detailed. A woman lays across an altar, delicately impaled on a spear. Blood pools across the cloth, her eyes wide, glazed in death. Sigils look to have been burnt into her skin, and Dean shouldn't understand them, but he does. They jump off the page at him,  _ death _ ,  _ renew, blood, sacrifice, revive, remake, murder, take, taketake _ **_take_ ** . 

 

Dean slams the book shut, his heart racing, tongue heavy in his mouth and hands unsteady. He shakes his head and shoves the book away. He wishes it was bile rising in his throat, he wishes he could be sick. It doesn't sicken him, everything he felt, the pure want that filled him for a split second. 

 

His breaths are stuttered as he clenches his fist against the table, his nails digging into the meat of his palm. The Mark is eager, frustration making it contort inside of him. Dean picks the book up like it's covered in shit and tucks it back into its place on the shelf. 

  
Then Dean moves back, moves away and takes his seat at the end of the table. He turns over book six and begins to read.


	12. xii

Castiel comes back about three books later. Dean's got a pencil and paper out by now, scribbling down things that are relevant, which means he's got a nearly blank paper. He wants to bring back Sam as  _ Sam _ , not some subservient  _ thing. _

 

“Dean,” is the only thing Castiel says. 

 

“Cas,” is Dean's flat response back. 

 

Dean flips the page, makes a note on it, but he doesn't read it. He remains prominently aware of Cas’ presence in the room, how Castiel shifts his weight, how he breathes. Cas walks over to the chair across from Dean and takes a careful seat, staring at Dean. His eyes are heavy, assessing. 

 

Cas pulls a book from the top of the pile and sets it in front of him. He leaves it unopened and continues to stare at Dean. Dean simply stares at his open book, not taking in a single word. This goes on for a few minutes, Dean fighting to pull his attention from Cas every single second. 

 

Dean finally huffs and snaps his head up to stare at Cas. “What do you want?” 

 

“I told you a long time ago that I gave everything for you.” Dean opens his mouth to cut in, to argue, to discredit whatever Cas is gonna say, but Castiel leans forward, earnest and Dean finds himself listening. “At the time, it was true. I've made many mistakes, Dean, doing what I thought was best. Just as both you and Sam have. Now, I remain ready to give everything, again, for  _ you.”  _

 

Dean is silent. What is he supposed to say to that? Thanks but no thanks? 

 

Cas continues, voice soft. “You told me that you'd rather have me, cursed or not. That remains true from me to you, Dean. You told me once that we're family, and we don't give up on family. I refuse to give up on you, Dean. Family is not a one way street - we do things to help each other.” 

 

Dean stares silently down at his book, blinks a few times in quick succession. He swallows and sits back slightly, hands cradling the book, thumb swiping the pages to soothe himself. “Cas, man, don't say that. You're dying because of me-” The words hurt to push out, hurt him down to the quick.

 

“People die all the time, Dean.” 

 

Dean clenches his fist, words slow, angry. “I won't let anyone else die for me. I'm tired of people dying for me, Cas. Die for something better.” 

 

Cas gets to his feet, voice plain, simple. “You are something better, Dean.” Then he turns and strides out of the library, his coat flaring out behind him.

 

His heavy presence vanishes and Dean can breathe again. His skin feels itchy and he scratches absentmindedly, only to realize he's picking at the Mark. His fists clench and he forces himself to read. 

 

After ten minutes of the same page and no words in Dean's brain, he gives up and closes the book, getting to his feet. He puts the read pile away, mechanical, face blank. 

 

_ I care about you.  _

 

_ I gave everything for you.  _

 

_ I refuse to give up on you.  _

 

_ You are something better, Dean.  _

 

Dean stands in the empty library, his hand still clinging to the last book he put back, dust lightly coating his fingertips. He stares without seeing at the wall of books, he listens to his own heartbeat. 

 

The books don't stare back and they don't hold any answers for Dean. Dean reaches up for the amulet, only to find it missing. He remembers now, can feel the solid weight of it leaving his palm. 

 

Dean rushes outside the bunker, boots clanking against the concrete on his way up the stairs as he tears into the open field, eyes peeled for that glint of worn gold. Dean's throat gets tighter the longer he has to search and nothing turns up. The Mark begins to whisper, prompting, laying out the math. 

 

_ Fifteen minutes driving. People on the street. Give them a ride, strangle them in the seat, fuck them while they're bloody and dying and -  _

 

Dean swallows and forces it back, eyes looking through grass for the amulet. He didn't think it was possible to throw it this far, but he hadn't paid attention to where it landed. Why hadn't he payed attention? Why had he thrown it in the first place? 

 

Minutes pass as Dean paces back and forth across the field, eyes raking through the grass. The amulet remains hidden, and Dean can't help but think that he lost it, it's gone for good, he just threw away Sam - 

 

“Sam! Sammy!” Dean starts to call out for him, the bottom of his jeans soaking through as he continues to march through the grass. 

 

He continues through the field, yelling for Sam and nobody responds. No flicker of a ghost, no voice, nothing. Dean isn't sure what to do. He just threw his last connection to Sam and lost his brother to a field of grass. 

 

Only when it gets too dark to see does Dean go inside, if only to get a flashlight. The quiet of the bunker is disturbed by voices, and Dean moves towards the sound of them. 

 

He finds Cas’ bedroom door open, Cas sitting on the edge of his bed, Sam hovering next to him. The tightness in Dean's throat eases as he spots the amulet cupped between Cas’ fingers, cradled gently around it. He and Sam speak in low voices, but Dean can't hear over his heart in his ears and the Mark's disappointment. 

 

Dean skulks away, back into the bunker, takes deep breaths to help ease his heartbeat. He goes to the kitchen and twists the top off of a beer, drinks it all in one go. It takes the jittery edge off of him, helps smooth back the remnants of panic and fear. 

 

Absentmindedly, he taps the bottom of the bottle against the counter, eyes heavy. His stomach growls, muted by the layers of shirts and flesh. Dean sighs – he knows he hasn't been eating properly, living off of chips and beer for the last week like he has been. 

 

The fridge reveals wilted greens and a single rotten tomato. Dean sighs and throws them in the trash, snags his keys from the rack and makes his way up to the garage. 

 

The moment the door of Baby closes and Dean gets his first deep breath of her, he feels centered. He feels at peace, calm. Dean starts her up and listens to her engine purr for a moment before easing her out and onto the road.  

 

The trip to the closest grocery store is brief. Dean picks up some stuff for the week, some cereal and milk, bread, the normal. He picks up a small thing of honey that makes him think of Cas, and after a moment’s hesitation, throws it in the basket. 

 

He leaves the beer alone, instead grabbing things for dinner. The cashier is cute, small and curvy, with a shock of blue hair, and Dean smiles and says thank you and doesn't leave his number with her. 

 

The drive back is quiet, relaxed, classic rock mixing with Baby’s purr. Dean feels better than he has in days as he pulls back into the bunker garage. He's reluctant to turn the Impala off, let his peace fade away into the silence. He sighs and twists the key, gathers the groceries and heads inside. 

 

Cas is waiting for him in the kitchen, brow furrowed in worry. He looks up when Dean comes in and gets to his feet. His eyes rake up and down Dean. 

 

“Dean? Where have you been?” 

 

“I just went to the store man. That's it.” 

 

Halfway through the sentence, Dean realizes what Cas is looking for. Blood. He swallows tightly, and continues. “Just groceries.” 

 

Cas nods and turns away. “Oh,” is all he says as he walks away. Dean stands with a handful of bags in the kitchen, and he feels alone. He feels so desperately alone. 

 

Dean sets the bags on the counter and puts everything away. He turns the stove on and sets up coffee to brew, lays out the food on the counter. 

 

It takes Dean forty five minutes and two cups of coffee to assemble a decent dinner. He plates it carefully and carries one plate and a cup of coffee to Cas’ room, nudging the door open with a foot. 

 

Cas is sitting on his bed, trenchcoat lying over a chair in the corner. The amulet is on bedside table beside him, and he's got a book on his lap and a stack beside him. It looks like a bunch of classics, just Cas trying to catch up on how to be human. 

 

Dean clears his throat and tries to pretend it isn't painfully awkward. He shuffles into the room and hold up the food like a peaceful offering. “I made dinner.” 

 

Cas perks up slightly. “Food is a very good thing.” 

 

Dean gives Cas a tight smile. “I suppose it is.” He hands the plate to Cas and sets the coffee on the side table. His hand hovers before he picks up the amulet as it dangles heavily from his finger.

 

He feels undeserving under Cas’ scrutiny, blue eyes taking him in. Dean steps back. “Enjoy the food, man.”

 

The walk back to the kitchen is long, the string of the amulet clutched in his hand. Dean takes a seat at the table and mechanically eats his food and drinks his coffee and does dishes. The amulet sits on the table the whole time, small bronze eyes gazing sightlessly up. 

 

He dries his hands and turns to lean back against the counter, staring across the room at the amulet. He sighs walks over to pick it up, thumb swiping over the side of it before Dean curls it tightly into his palm. 

 

“Sammy, if you can hear me, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” 

 

Dean drops it to hang from his fingers by a string and vanishes down the hall to prepare for bed. He's slow, meticulous in his routine. Halfway through his shower, he realizes that the Mark is itching. He glances down at it and then away. 

 

He's tired of feeling sick. 

 

The amulet sits on the bedside table and in the scant light it looks almost invisible. Dean stares at it through the dark until his eyes feel heavy and the bed swallows him up.

 

Dean's sleep is restless. He dreams of dark hallways outlined in red, bodies littering the floor, hands pressing against him from every direction. He dreams of fire, the snap and crackling pop of it. He feels hot, like his skin is peeling from his flesh. His throat is hoarse, dry and cracked. 

 

He can hear footsteps, feel two fingers pressed delicately to the center of his temple. He eases, his fear dissipates. 

  
Castiel shuts the door softly on his way out. 


	13. xiii

The ceiling is quiet to Dean's eyes when he wakes. The world is silent, with the weighted stillness before a thunderstorm, or a love confession. He sits up, soul heavy inside of him. The Mark is dead on his arm, just…skin. 

 

Just a mark. 

 

The blankets pool at the edge of the bed as Dean kicks them down, the concrete cold against his feet. Everything feels distant, but he's clear. Dean feels like an explosion of stars stuffed into too small skin, an entire spanning night sky poured into bones.

 

His hands are careful as he cradles the amulet, lets it settles around his neck. He breathes into the moving stillness of the bunker. He walks like a river, his feet waving across the floor. The darkness isn't an issue, one guiding hand pressed against the wall. 

 

Outside is cold, the grass wet against his bare feet. He is clear, he is pure. Dean is...Dean. His nose and the tips of his ears freeze, his fingers shivering in the night.

 

For the first time in a long time, Dean's head is his own. There is no pressing evil, no raging battle inside. There is nothing but the sky, with its small red pinpricks of stars. 

 

Dean stands in the middle of the field, the bunker behind him and the city lights in the distance. He shivers in the cold. 

 

The stars start to bleed through the sky like water color, the horizon muddling until Dean can't tell the difference between sky and ground. The stars become blades of grass, the dirt pouring in to fill the holes in the galaxy and Dean flying through it all. 

 

Sam appears next to him, he looks upset. “Dean. Dean, please, come on man. Snap out of it.” 

 

Dean blinks sluggishly at him, the grass starts to cry blood, dripping over Dean's head and shoulders, coating him it. It smells like copper and looks like sludge and Dean can suddenly feel his heart pounding in his throat, his stomach a knot of excitement. 

 

“Dean.” 

 

His hands are wet. His skin itches and burns, too tight for all the rage thick in his throat. 

 

A pair of sightless eyes solidifies in front of him, blood pooling from the head. Dean's straddling a corpse, hands tight around its neck. He jerks back immediately, panting. His hands shake and he feels jittery, his head pounding. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he flinches, chest heaving and eyes wide. 

 

The Mark howls, scratching and clawing and ripping Dean apart from the inside out. He flinches, the noise around him too loud. The city shrieks around him, blood covering everything. The air tastes acrid and stale. 

 

Dean's eyes dart around and they follow a pants left up to meet Sam's sad, heavy eyes. “What did you do, Dean? What did you do?” His voice is mournful, like Dean's about to suffer. 

 

“I don't know Sam. I don't know.” Dean looks at his hands, shaking his head. He doesn't understand. He can't wrap his head around this, around the body between his thighs and the blood on his hands. 

 

Dean scrambles back off of the body, palms slipping in the blood on the pavement. He can feel gravel stick to his palm as he shakes his. Everything is wrong, skewed red and black. 

 

He doesn't understand, doesn't know how this could have happened. Sam hovers nearby, and Dean has no idea where he's at. He has absolutely no clue where he could possibly be. 

 

Dean shakes his head and stares at the body, his voice hoarse. “How long was I…?” 

 

“Long enough.” Sam drifts in place, Dean checks himself. He's in sweatpants and an old Zeppelin tee. Both are soaked with blood. He can feel it on his face, burning his skin. 

 

The Mark itches wildly, shuddering and twitching and scratching at Dean. He can barely stand against it, he's just…tired. 

 

Dean is so tired. 

 

He doesn't have a phone. He probably doesn't have a car. He doesn't even know if he's still in Kansas. He just wants to lay down, blood and all, and sleep and forget that this has happened. 

 

But he doesn't. Dean gets to his feet, shaking, and stumbles out of the alley into the busy street. Streetlights block out the stars, clouds invisible in the glare. 

 

He trips along, passing under light after light, amulet thumping against his chest in time to his racing heart. Sam follows silently. Dean wades through the night time air, shivering in the cold. He can't just ask someone for a cell, not covered in blood. He shouldn't even be walking down the street, cars passing by. 

 

Dean is numb. The sounds around him are muffled, distant. The concrete scraping against his bare feet is muted. Everything he sees is blurred, wavy and muddled. 

 

He stumbles into a payphone booth, blood flaking of his hand as he wrenches it open. He scrambles for coins, for pennies, quarters, dimes, anything. He finds just enough for one call. 

 

“Cas? Cas, man, you gotta come get me.”

 

They burn the bodies. All twenty-three of them, from an old lady to a small boy. All of their lives on Dean's hands, all of their deaths piled on his shoulders. 

 

He should have been more prepared, he should have known, he should have… 

 

Dean is the one who gathers them up. He's the one who builds the pyre, he's the one who wraps the corpses up. He carries each and every one, big and small, to the pyre and lays them out. 

 

He never says a word, Sam standing to the side with Cas. The amulet hangs from Cas’ fingers, Cas’ eyes heavy with sadness as they follow Dean, back and forth. 

 

Dean stands, shoulders hunched in front of the pile of bodies. His eye twitches, hands shoved into his pockets. He's the picture of regret. It paints across him in broad strokes, fills him up.

 

He has to work to pick up the enormous bag of salt, shifts until he can spread it over the bodies. White on death on wood. Dean's the light who lights the torch, fire too bright and harsh for Dean to look at. 

 

His hands shake as he hesitates, torch held in a loose grasp. Dean has to drop his gaze as he presses the torch to the wood and watches it go up out of the corner of his eye. The bodies catch fire soon enough. He sets the still lit torch on a spread of pyre that's unlit and leaves it there. 

 

Dean takes a step back, flinches as the small child's body begins to burn. He drops his gaze to the ground and doesn't raise it. 

 

“Dean.” Cas stands a little to the left and a little behind him, his voice low and reaching. 

“Don't,” is the only thing Dean says. His voice is firm, if hoarse. 

 

“Dean, please. We need to -” 

 

He cuts Sam off, voice harsh. “We don't need to do anything.” He turns to face Cas, jerking a hand out of his pocket and poking him forcefully in the chest. “You promised.” 

 

“Dean, please. This is possible to work through -” 

 

“ _ Possible to work through _ ?” Dean stabs a finger in the direction of the small child burning, face twisted. “I killed a kid, Cas. He was innocent. There is no  _ 'working through _ ’ that. I told you, I'm a monster, and monsters don't live very long. Since you can't fucking kill me, you gotta neutralize me. You gotta lock me up, man. You have to.” 

 

“Dean, you just need to let us help you -” 

 

Dean tangles his fingers in the collar of Cas’ coat, his voice low. “There is no helping me. I'm past saving Cas, but you can help save other people. You can help save them.” He jerks his head back towards the pile of bodies, smoke spiraling into the sky. 

 

Sam shakes his head. “You're my brother Dean, I won't let Cas just lock you up.”

 

Dean snarls back. “You died to save people from me Sam. Stay the fuck out of this.” 

 

The Mark has its claws in him, Dean knows. But it's angry about the right things, about the injustice about it, about how little blood was spilt. More bodies should be stacked one that pyre - 

 

Dean stumbles back, hand clutching his forearm. He shakes his head, insists. “You need to do it. I need to be locked up. I killed these people, and I need to do whatever I can to stop it from happening again.”

 

“Dean, if you would let us cure you -” 

 

“How many more people have to die for a cure I don't deserve?”

 

Sam shakes his head. “You deserve it, Dean.” 

 

Dean looks at him, flickering and ghostly, vision bleeding red.  _ Blood pooling across the floor, across the asphalt, his scythe, his hands, bones crunching, kill and take and k _ **_ill and take andkillandtake_ ** . 

 

He drags his gaze away. “Leave it Sam. Stop putting me first. You should know better by now.” 

 

Sam shakes his head. “You're my brother, Dean. Please.”

 

“No, Sam. I won't let myself hurt anyone else. Cas, please.” Dean turns to meet Cas’ eyes. “Please.” 

 

Sam moves between them, staring Cas down. “Don't you dare, Castiel. He's my brother.” 

 

“Goddamit, Sam, just fucking get out of this!” Dean grasps the amulet and rips it from Cas’ hands, Sam flickering as Dean rips it through him. Dean spins and chucks it, right into the burning pile of wood and flesh. 

 

It takes a moment – only a second – for Dean to realize what he's done, his panic drowning out the Mark. 

 

He lunges forward, back into the fire, hands scrabbling through the coals for the amulet. He pulls it back out, the string singed, and the face partially melted, but it remains intact - and so does Sam. 

 

Cas’ hands remain tightened in his coat, Sam hanging a few feet away sadly, staring at Dean with hurt. Sam had this big idea that Dean could always be saved, and staring straight his little brother now, Dean Winchester knows that Sam doesn't believe in it anymore. Sam doesn't believe in  _ him _ anymore. 

 

“Sam, please, I didn't -” Dean's voice cracks, pain in every syllable. 

 

“I know,” Sam cuts in, the only thing he says. Sam draws a thumb over the small line around his throat, the cut from the scythe. It seems that Dean is always the executioner these days. 

 

“I know, Dean.” 

 

Dean takes a step forward, hand outstretched towards Sam, the amulet dangling from it. He can see Sam's face, see his pity, his distrust. His lack of faith. 

 

Dean doesn't have anything to say. Nothing to ease that look from Sam's face. He opens his mouth to try, the Mark clogs his throat, shoves his words back.

 

“It's obvious that I can't save you. The only person who can help you is yourself.”

 

“Sammy, please, no I didn't mean -” 

 

“Goodbye, Dean.” Dean lunges forward, blind with terror as Sam dissolves into bright blue white light, spiraling up into sky. 

 

Dean calls up to the sky, after a moment of shock. “Sam! Sammy, please, come back, fuck, I didn't know, oh God -” 

 

Dean stares up after the sky, mouth parted in shock, and eyes wide. Glassy. Cas is quiet as he presses a hand to Dean's shoulder. 

 

“It's going to rain. We should go inside.” 

 

Dean shakes his head against Cas’ insistent tugging on his arm. The Mark swirls inside, stirring up rage. Sam just left him. Just up and left him and Dean's alone now. Alone. 

 

Cas gives a particularly sharp tug, spinning Dean around. The Mark dims slightly as the sky opens and begins to weep, rain sliding instantly down the back of his neck. It catches in Cas’ hair, rolls down his face. 

 

Within seconds, they're both soaked to the skin, hair plastered flat and clothes heavy with water. The fire hisses with every drop, smoke hanging heavily in the air. Dean's solitary tears find company in the rain as he repeats, “He left. He left me.” 

 

Cas squeezes Dean's arm tightly, and Dean meets Cas’ eyes. The bright blue grounds him and Dean takes a deep breath. He's not alone. Castiel will do what needs to be done. 

  
Dean moves his other hand up to take Cas’ hand. Their hands grasp and Dean grounds himself in that. He is not alone. 


	14. xiv

It takes Cas awhile to find a good place. He decides on the bunker, a room in the depths of it. Cas spends a week researching wards, practicing them. He spends time researching the bunker, how it's made.

 

Dean spends a week in mourning, fighting the Mark. Fighting a fever and the sniffles. Cas brings him water, sometimes brings him food.

 

Dean crawls out to the Impala on the fifth day and crawls into the back. He holds the amulet to his chest and shivers in Baby's seats, sweat pouring out of him. The Mark hisses and howls and rages but Dean doesn't feel a thing. His grief drives it away, leaving him alone inside Baby.

 

Cas comes racing out after a few hours, panic written into his face. He eases when he spots Dean, still there. Still human.

 

He escorts Dean back to bed and gets back to work. Dean sweats and burns and mourns, sometimes with Cas reading beside him, sometimes alone.

 

Cas starts setting up the wards as Dean gets better, constantly making runs for chalk and herbs and blood. Wards spiral out from the room where Dean will spend the rest of his life, whatever kind of life it is.

 

Dean goes to look at it in the middle of the night, eight days after Sam leaves him. The wards are along the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Dean feels sick.

 

This is where he's destined to remain locked away, buried and forgotten. Alone. He can feel the air pressing in, his lungs fighting to pull air in, and warring to push it back out. The Mark beats against his ribs and Dean presses a hand against his chest. It settles with Dean's quiet pain.

 

The Mark has always enjoyed hurting Dean more than anyone else.

 

Two days after that, Dean can be found inside the Impala, hands white knuckling against the steering wheel. He wants to start her up and drive away, into the sunset. He wants to leave. He doesn't want to be here, to stay here forever. He'll miss outside. He'll miss air.

 

He'll miss being Dean Winchester, a hero.

 

He's not ready to becomes Dean Winchester, bearer of the Mark of Cain and a monster. He doesn't want to be a nightmare.

 

Dean turns the key, just to hear her purr. He blinks away tears and strokes along her steering wheel. He doesn't know what to do with her, where to leave her. He has no one to leave her to.

 

He's not coming back to her.

 

Dean goes out the next day as the sun sets, after letting Cas know. He tells Cas that if he's not back by ten, something's wrong.

 

He drives with his hand waving in the nippy air outside the window, the sun casting everything in orange. Dean has a gut feeling this will be the last time he sees the sun.

 

He buys a tree. Dean plants it outside the bunker, digging a hole like he's dug a thousand graves. This feels better...more pure. He's not disturbing rest or messing with death. He's leaving one last legacy, one last good thing. He's leaving life.

 

He delicately settles the birch into the soil, small sprig that it is. He hesitates before he continues, but he wants - he wants Baby to survive. He wants something to live on of Dean Winchester, the hero.

 

He parks her over the tree, removes her engine. It pains him, but the tree would die without sunlight, without rain. He leaves her hood propped open, and she looks empty. Sad.

 

Just the way Dean feels.

 

The last he sees of his Baby, she's got the stars sparking off of her, shining brightly. He gives her one last smile and closes the bunker door behind him.

 

He leans against it heavily. Cas steps in from the library, stares up at Dean. He already knows what he's going to say before Cas opens his mouth.

 

“It's time, Dean.”

 

The whole walk into bunker, the Mark screams. Dean feels like a dead man. He feels like he's been judged and sentenced, right to the grave.

 

Cas stays behind to seal the wards as they go, locking up the bunker. He turns out the lights, all except the strand along the hallway leading to Dean's new cell.

 

Dean doesn't want to go in, his arm itching and burning, hands trembling. Cas sets a hand on his shoulder, the shoulder Castiel had gripped to raise Dean from hell.

 

“I'm right behind you, Dean.”

 

Dean pushes the door open and steps inside. He has to remind himself to breathe as Cas seals the wards behind him, the whole hall glowing brilliantly with color as the wards activate.

 

Cas follows him in, and Dean turns. He doesn't know what he's expecting. A goodbye? Words of reassurance?

 

Dean and Castiel's eyes meet, and Dean locks down his panic, bolts it to his bones. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, his last week of silence catching up to him. Suddenly, Dean wants to say anything, tell Cas everything.

 

Cas is the one who breaks the eye contact. Cas goes up to shut the door, the small two step stairs providing no obstacle for him. Dean slides down the wall to stare at him on his way out, ready to say goodbye to him. He hopes that Cas will make it through, that he'll find some way to survive. The light from the hall slants into the room, throwing Cas into sharp contrast.

 

Dean can see Castiel grasp the door handle, and then he can't see anymore as the door closes. It seems final, the shut and click of the lock sliding into place. Dean can feel his throat tighten, panic pushing his heart to the limit.

 

Dean suddenly realizes he can hear breathing that isn't his own, footsteps crossing over to him. He knows them, knows it's Cas who slides down the wall to sit next to him.

 

The only word that comes out is, “Why?”

 

“I told you that even when everyone you knew was dead and gone, I would still be here. I intend to keep that promise.”

 

Dean can hear the end of that sentence that goes unspoken. _Unlike all the other ones I made and never kept._

 

Hands pressed against the cool floor to soothe the burn in his finger tips, Dean reminds himself to breathe. His hands shake and his arm itches, burns almost. Corruption curls inside of him, and he can taste bile in the back of his mouth.

 

His voice is rough when he responds. “I don't want you to die.”

 

“I do not wish to be left alone if I do. You and Sam are all I've ever had, and if I'm going to die, I would rather do it with my family.”

 

The dark presses in from all around them, crowds into them. The air is tight, folding in around them, pushing their skin into their bones. They reach out for each other, hands bumping together and grasping in the dark.

 

Hands that trace their way up each other's arms, until Dean is cradling Cas’ face, Cas’ own hand cupping Dean's jaw. The kiss is awkward, noses bumping and lips landing askew. They adjust themselves and, in the dark claustrophobic space of a collapsed in bunker, they find some kind of hope.

 

.The Mark is silent


End file.
